Died in the Wool

by Rett MacPherson

  Although these cases have long ago been laid to rest as suicides, I cannot help but think that in at least one instance, this is dreadfully wrong. I do not doubt that Rupert hanged himself from the tree in the backyard, as he was terribly deranged and ill from the trench warfare that he had endured. What that boy saw, nobody should ever see. How some men return from war intact and others don’t is a mystery to me, but I think it has something to do with the state they’re in when they go. Rupert had always been a gentle, almost timid soul. To think of him having to actually kill another human being … I’m honestly astounded that he made it home at all.… And, for the record, I am not at all shocked that Glory Anne would have taken too much laudanum, although I’ve never known her to use it. She was a friend of mine, although we weren’t especially close. Glory Anne was not close to many people. But Rupert nearly tore open her heart. To see Rupert in that state was more than she could bear on most days. Then for Sandy to deny her the one true love she had—I think she’d hit bottom, as they say. She never spoke to me about planning to take her own life. She always smiled and acted as if everything was fine. I never expected she would do this, but when I heard the news, neither did it surprise me. Whalen is the one that I cannot fathom. Once Glory was gone, Whalen was free to find Hazel. I suspect that is what he was about to do, but a bullet stopped him. Of course, I can never prove any of this, and I suppose it is unfair of me to write about their choices with none of them here to speak for themselves.

  That was it. A few cryptic lines sprinkled throughout the paragraph that would drive me insane. I would think about them for months. Possibly even years, unless I learned the truth. Once Glory was gone, Whalen was free to find Hazel. What did that mean?

  “What does that mean?” Colin asked from the doorway.

  I jumped at his voice. “Oh, jeez. You scared me,” I said.

  “What does it mean?” he asked. He came in and sat in the chair across from me. He glanced at the Rose of Sharon quilt hanging on my wall.

  “I’m not sure, other than I think I’ve been barking up the wrong tree this whole time.”

  “Explain,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Mort as he came in. “Explain for me, too.”

  “Oh, hi. I tried to call both of you and there was no answer.”

  “Looks like we both got the message at the same time,” Mort said, smiling at Colin. “And here we are.”

  “Well, all this time I’ve been thinking that it was Whalen who killed Glory, although I could never come up with a really plausible reason why he would. Judy Pipkin’s mother said that the brothers were crazy about their sister, and she implied that there was more to it than your usual sibling affection. So for a second I thought that maybe Whalen killed Glory because he didn’t want anybody else to have her. That motive has never made sense to me, but the courthouses are full of cases where men have killed women just to keep anybody else from having them.”

  “Even some women killing men for the same reasons,” Mort added.

  “Psycho, but okay, it happens,” I said. “And Marty Tarullo’s story about Whalen bringing Glory Anne to break up with his brother—after you hear Judy Pipkin’s story, it seems to fit. Whalen was forcing Glory to break it off with Anthony because he wanted her for himself.”

  “Can I just say this whole brother-sister thing is creeping me out?” Colin said.

  “Yeah, me, too. But what I think happened was even worse. I mean, let’s just suppose that the reason Rupert and Whalen doted on Glory and protected her so much was that they knew her father was doing the worst thing possible.”

  Mort and Colin looked at me blankly. It sort of made me feel good that they didn’t immediately understand what I was implying. Finally, Colin said, “You mean, her father was molesting her?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Rupert was quoted as saying that he returned from the war to find a monster living here. He warned Glory Anne not to let the big mean man get her. Sandy was certainly a big guy, and I just came from the college, where an art historian showed me how she used her computer to restore part of the mural Rupert did on the wall. The part where the big Nosferatu-type character is trying to get his sister? You were right, Mort, there was another picture underneath. It was of Sandy Kendall. In Rupert’s mural, his father, Sandy Kendall, is trying to devour Glory.”

  Colin and Mort exchanged glances. “But remember, Rupert was not in his right mind. Maybe he thought his father was a monster for another reason. The war could have made him imagine all sorts of things,” Colin said.

  “He’s got a point,” Mort said. “What’s your proof?”

  I slapped my forehead with my palm. “Ugh. You guys and your proof,” I said. “I don’t have a big confession written in blood or anything, but Marty told me that Glory’s father was okay with her marrying Anthony. He wasn’t thrilled, but he didn’t make any big fuss about it, either. So why did Sylvia write in her notes on the family group sheet that Sandy had denied Glory her one true love? Maybe behind the scenes Sandy was a bit more adamant. Maybe he even threatened Anthony, and maybe Whalen had told Glory to break it off to save Anthony. Sylvia also said, and I quote, ‘Once Glory was gone, Whalen was free to find Hazel.’ I’ve been under the impression that Hazel left because Whalen had done something terrible, possibly even because Whalen was in love with his sister. What if Hazel left because she found out what was going on with Sandy? What if Hazel left out of fear for her own daughter’s safety? Hell, what if Whalen sent her away instead of her leaving? Then, obviously, Whalen never went to get her because he ended up dead. It would also make sense of why Hazel wouldn’t have tried to get any of Sandy Kendall’s money. She was afraid of him. She wanted to be far away from him.”

  Mort raised his eyebrow, and Colin leaned forward on his knees. “It’s all speculation,” Colin said.

  “Not entirely,” Mort said.

  “What?” I asked. “What do you know?”

  “I got the trajectory analysis back,” Mort said.

  “And?” I asked, swallowing hard.

  “To cut out all the jargon, it simply states that somebody about six and a half feet tall shot Whalen while he was kneeling. Although we don’t have an entry and exit wound to examine, Darla checked the rudimentary crime scene photos and the crime scene drawings, which did show at least the area of entry and exit. Still, without computer analysis of the entry and exit wounds, I suppose we can’t be one hundred percent sure, but given the extreme angle of the splatter and Sandy’s extreme height, I would feel comfortable saying in a court of law that Sandy Kendall, it would seem, shot his son Whalen while Whalen was on his knees.”

  I sat back in my chair and stared openmouthed at the new sheriff. Colin got up and walked around the room, stopping at the window to look out onto River Pointe Road. “So Glory and Whalen were both murdered,” I said.

  From the window, Colin said, “Glory was either killed by her brother Whalen to save her, or she was killed by her father so that nobody else could have her,” he said. He looked me square in the eyes. “You realize we’ll never know. Whalen’s murder we can pin on Sandy, but Glory … I’m not sure we will ever know the truth.”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I said, “but why would Sandy kill Whalen? Do you think it was because Whalen knew about what he was doing to Glory?”

  “Maybe it was because Whalen killed Glory,” Mort said. “Like you said, Torie. It was a mercy killing. Whalen killed his sister so she wouldn’t have to endure the abuse from her father, and when Sandy found out, he killed Whalen for killing Glory.”

  “I’m getting a big headache,” I said. “Why didn’t Whalen just kill his father? Why did anybody have to kill Glory?”

  “Maybe he was going to,” Colin said, “and Sandy just got to him first.”

  “Well, whoever it was,” Mort said, “they both covered up Glory’s murder. Either Sandy killed her and Whalen helped cover it up, or vice versa. Why would either one do that?”

  “Again, we may never k
now,” Colin said.

  “I think Sandy had the most to lose,” I said, “but I also think Sandy killed her. Because if Whalen killed her to save her or to put her out of her misery, why would he have chosen such a horrible way to do it, when he could have just given her laudanum for real? Whalen, if all this is true, would have been more humane about it. Sandy was angry. His property was in love with somebody else and he wanted her to pay. So not only did he pick an incredibly painful way for her to die, but he chose to administer that death with her most beloved thing, her quilting and sewing supplies. If Whalen was protecting her, he wouldn’t have done that. He would have found a painless way to do it. No, that was Sandy Kendall’s doing. Once he killed her, he panicked, thinking it might not look like a suicide, and he threatened Whalen with Hazel and Sophia to keep his mouth shut. I think later, when Whalen was going to go to Hazel, Sandy shot him.”

  It was quiet in my office. So quiet I could hear the refrigerator kick off down the hall in the kitchen.

  “He couldn’t take the chance that Whalen would tell,” I added after a moment.

  “Well,” Colin said with a sigh, “I can’t say that I disagree with you, but you cannot go public with any of this, because it is only speculation.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You do?” he asked.

  “I can lay out the facts we have, the documents we have, as part of the tour, but beyond that, my part in this story is finished.”

  Mort rose to leave and stopped in the doorway. “I’ll deposit copies of the crime scene evidence with you next week. That way you can use them in the display when you open the textile museum,” he said.

  “Thanks a bunch, Mort. I really can’t thank you enough.”

  “What for?”

  “For believing me when I came to you with a wild idea.”

  “Gotta take chances in this world. I like a bit of a shake-up every now and then. See you around,” he said and left my office.

  That left Colin staring at the Rose of Sharon quilt hanging on my wall. “Is this one of Glory’s quilts?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  Well … I didn’t know. “I just assumed it was Sylvia’s. I thought maybe even Sylvia had made it.”

  “Maybe it was Sylvia’s,” Colin said. “Maybe Glory gave it to her.”

  “What makes you think it was Glory’s?” I asked—although looking at it, I saw it could have been her work. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before.

  He shrugged. “Hunch.”

  “Oh, you know what you always say about hunches,” I said.

  “I know, but sometimes they turn out to be right on the money,” he said. “Speaking of which … you did good work on this one, Torie. Really good work.”

  “Yeah, but you were right. You suspected Sandy back when I suspected Whalen.”

  “I know, but you figured it out. You corrected your own mistakes.”

  “More like I just fumbled my way through once I had enough evidence.”

  “That’s all any of us ever do,” he said. “I just wish you could have gotten your definitive proof.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” I asked him. He’d damn near given me a compliment, and he wasn’t snickering or crossing his fingers.

  “Call it distance,” he said. “Once you put distance between yourself and the thing you do—or used to do—every day, it all looks different.”

  With that he walked out of my office. I was left staring at the quilt that had hung on my office wall for a decade or more and wondering if an alien had invaded the body of my stepfather. I stepped over and examined the quilt a bit more closely. There it was, down in the right-hand corner. The initials GAK, the year 1918. It had been hanging there all this time, and I never realized who had made it. Tears welled in my eyes, and I got the creepiest feeling that somebody was watching me. I rubbed my fingers across the stitches and sighed heavily. Well, I might not know for sure who killed her, but I now knew it wasn’t suicide. I also knew what sort of private hell she had lived in.

  The story of the Kendall “suicides” was finished as far as I was concerned.

  THE NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

  The News You Might Miss

  By Eleanore Murdoch

  Last weekend’s rose show was a rousing success. Louise Callier’s gorgeous Tropicana was the most outstanding rose in the whole show, in my book. However, many of you voted for Glamis Castle and Maddie Fulton’s Graham Thomas. Don’t worry, we’ll educate all of you on the proper qualities of a rose before next year.

  Congratulations to local historian Torie O’Shea, who has bought the old Kendall house for a textile museum. She hopes to have it open to the public sometime next year. If you have any old quilts or other textiles that you would be willing to loan to Torie for the opening of the museum, please contact her at the Gaheimer House on River Pointe Road.

  Two nights ago somebody was seen leaving Velasco’s Pizza with a woman who was not his wife. Please don’t do that again, because I’m not so sure I can keep the secret next time. It’s killing me.

  Father Bingham wants to thank the local Boy Scout troop for collecting all those canned goods for the food pantry. Sam Hill wants to announce that Thursday night is ladies’ night at the new microbrewery. He can’t guarantee love or happiness, but he can guarantee good beer at cheap prices. And after that, who cares?

  Would the unnamed individuals who are building a shed in their backyard please stop hammering and sawing after midnight? The floodlights are really annoying, too.

  Hope to see you all at the Strawberry Festival!

  Until next time,

  Eleanore

  Twenty-two

  It was June, and the Strawberry Festival was under way. Every year we get more people driving longer and longer distances to attend. Parking starts out on Highway P, and some people walk as much as two miles just to get to the city limits. Wish I could take credit for all the strawberry jam, but I can’t.

  Rudy and I planned to close on the Kendall house July first. Word had gotten around already about the textile museum. I’d had many calls from people wanting to donate items. One woman told me she had one quilt that her great-grandmother had made, and rather than have her four children fight over it she was going to give it to the museum. To some extent, I found that sad, that it would be leaving their family. At the same time, I knew the quilt was less likely to get damaged at the museum, or lost, and the family could always come and visit it. No fighting or squabbling, and everybody would have equal access.

  I pulled my car into the driveway of the Santa Lucia Catholic Church. I was here to do what I had promised to do for Marty Tarullo. As expected, he had died two days after I’d seen him in the hospital. I took my sunglasses off and set them on the seat next to me and stared out at the cemetery adjacent to the church. “I’ll only be a minute,” I said to Mary. “Stay in the car and watch your brother.”

  I grabbed the flowers that I’d bought and headed out to find Glory Anne Kendall’s grave. Now that I knew whose grave it was, the striking sculpture of her nearly took my breath away. It was almost as if she were waiting for me, propped up on her side like that. There was a part of me that wanted to have her moved from this spot, away from her father. But then, why make her move when he was the jerk? I should have him moved. I wasn’t even sure if the church would allow me to do something like that, but it seemed like a travesty for Glory to rest next to the man who had stalked her during life. Of course, maybe in the afterlife, it didn’t much matter where either one of their bones lay.

  I set the flowers in the built-in vase and had a moment of silence for her. I was overcome with wishing I had known her. I wished I had known the woman who had inspired a man to put flowers on her grave for eighty-plus years! A woman so unbelievably talented, who could create the most amazing works of beauty from scraps and some thread. A woman who was beautiful yet innocent, loving and admirably devoted to her mentally ill brother.
A woman who gave away not just quilts but her time, and ultimately her love, for free with nothing expected in return. Anthony Tarullo had received that love, and had never gotten to marry her.

  I couldn’t say who I thought was the biggest victim in this whole thing. Rupert, the poor man, driven insane by what men can do to men? Whalen, forced to send his wife away because of what his father could do to his sister? Glory, a victim of a man’s brutality, the ultimate act of betrayal? Anthony Tarullo, innocent of everything except loving Glory? Again, I was overwhelmed by the horrible things that people could actually do to each other.

  Just as I was about to leave, I heard somebody behind me. Maddie Fulton walked up slowly with a cane in one hand and a pot of something in the other. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I want you to plant this rose on Glory’s grave,” she said. “It’s a climber, and it’s called New Dawn. Pink. Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

  I smiled at Maddie as she handed me the cutting of the rose. “I’ve got a shovel in the car. Don’t you think it will look pretty when it’s climbed up all over this sculpture?”

  I had gone to see Maddie about a week ago and told her my suspicions about what had happened to Glory. “You know, I should have known when I saw the sculpture,” I said. “Nobody has a sculpture made of his daughter like this. This is something a husband or a lover would have commissioned. Not a father.”

  “Well, we’re gonna cover it with roses, so it won’t matter,” she said.

  In the distance I heard a car door slam. Thinking it was Mary, I turned and saw Geena Campbell walking across the lawn. “I thought I might find you here,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that in the bottom of Glory’s sewing box, I found these papers.”

  “What papers?” I asked.