“Why?” Colin asked. “Can’t you just give the manuscript to Brian?”
“I think what Torie is trying to say,” Rudy said, “is she wants to find somebody more appreciative.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Brian was really only interested in what I had to say because he thought I was going to have long-lost money for him.”
“Oh,” Colin said. “Well, what if you don’t find anybody who is appreciative enough?”
“I don’t want to think about that,” I said. “I’m also going to check out the Evil Parson.”
“Huh?” Rudy asked.
“You know, the bad guy from the diary. It sucks, hating some anonymous jerk. I want him to have a name. So, I’m going to find him one,” I said.
We all walked out to the truck, my stomach rumbling all the way. I was as hungry as Colin lately. The tumbledown shack on the land next to the marina caught my attention again. “Hey, how much do you think lakefront property is worth up here?”
“Oh, a lot,” Colin said. “Why?”
“I just can’t figure out why somebody would let a piece of property like that go,” I said. “I mean, if you can’t afford to keep the building painted, why not just sell it?”
“Who knows?” Rudy said. “Does it bother you that much?”
“Well, it’s such an eyesore. I mean, look at all the rest of the lakefront. It’s beautiful. It figures, there has to be a bad apple in every bunch,” I said.
“So, where’re we eating?” Colin asked.
“Pancake Palace,” Rudy said.
Twelve
Instead of going back out on the lake with Rudy and Colin, I decided to look around the town a bit. I agreed to be back at the marina at five to pick them up from their day of fishing. I drove to the city limits and parked the truck and walked through town. In the center of Olin was a public notice board with messages posted on it. They were mostly things like fliers announcing that bingo night had changed, a pet had been lost, a baby-sitter was needed. A bright orange and black flier advertised the strongman competition this weekend. And there were a few other more official-looking notices about an estate, and an auction. Then, right there in the middle was one that just leapt out at me. It was an announcement of a monument that was to be erected during the festival this week in honor of the founder of the city of Olin.
I walked over to the historical society and hoped that Roberta would be there. Out front was sitting the same little red Geo Metro that had been there yesterday, so I knocked on the door and entered.
As I barreled through the door, I saw Roberta suddenly jump. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said.
Roberta looked past me and I glanced over my shoulder. An attractive woman stood behind me, inspecting a photograph that hung on the wall. She turned and smiled at me. She was breathtaking to look at. Very fresh-faced and earthy, and yet exotic at the same time. “Oh, hello.”
The woman smiled at me and said something about it being a nice day, to which I couldn’t do anything but nod and agree with her. Roberta came over to me then. “What can I do for you?”
“I just saw a public notice about a monument being erected for the founder of the city,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Well, it made me think to ask you about him and ask you…” I glanced over at the woman. “… about a lot of things. Would you happen to have a book of biographical sketches?”
She looked confused. Maybe she just didn’t know which of my questions to answer first, but I explained what I was looking for.
“It’s a book that is usually made up of biographical sketches of important leaders of the community: political, parochial, educational. I mean, you may not have one just for Olin, but you might have one for the whole county,” I said.
“Of course,” Roberta said. “Yes, I know exactly what you’re talking about.” She walked over and pulled two books off of the shelf behind her desk. They were ancient. The one was at least a century old, the other about eighty years old.
“Oh, please tell me they’re indexed,” I said. I get so irritated with these old books, because they are rarely ever indexed and you have to look at every page to find what you need.
“Well, the older one isn’t indexed, but it is in alphabetical order. I’m afraid the other one is not indexed, nor is it in alphabetical order. I’m not sure how they put the book together. Somebody told me once that they thought it was geographical. That the author just started at one end of the county and went to the next. Pretty strange way to put a book together.”
“Boy, I’ll say,” I said. I glanced over at the guest once again. “Can I just stand here and look through these?”
“Certainly,” Roberta said.
I tackled the alphabetical one first. I’d have been an idiot to do otherwise. In the meantime, Roberta sat back down at her desk. The problem was that this book was written far too early to have anything about John Bloomquist, since he didn’t become mayor until around 1900. Of course, one thing I’ve learned since becoming a genealogist is that rarely do people ever get dates or names correct when talking about their ancestors. Unless they are genealogists, too. So, I checked anyway.
There was something on Sven. I couldn’t believe it.
“Roberta, do you have a copier here?”
“No, ’fraid not. You’d have to go over to the post office.”
“The post office–grocery store?”
“Right.”
“Can I take this book over there?”
She shrugged. “I’m really not supposed to let you,” she said. “I can give you paper and pen and you can copy it down.”
“Yes, but there’s a photograph in here I’d like to get a copy of.”
“Oh…”
“Please? I swear to you I will bring it right back.”
“All right,” she said. “But only because I know your aunt will deliver you to me if you go back on your word.”
“Thank you,” I said. I tried to remember some of the other names that I had looked up in the land records. I couldn’t remember the dates that any of them had owned the house that my aunt now lived in. But I knew the Hujinaks didn’t come along until later. Hendrickson. That one I could remember. I looked it up and there wasn’t a chapter on that last name.
“Roberta, do you remember the list of people who owned my aunt’s farm before her? I just can’t remember everybody’s name.”
“Um, the Olsons, the Hujinaks … Reed. Wendell Reed.”
“That’s right, but I don’t think he moved in until after 1900 sometime. Then came the Hendricksons. And then there was one other between them and the Bloomquists.”
Roberta cleared her throat and appeared a little antsy. “I believe it was Rogers.”
“That’s right. So blasted simple, of course I forgot it.”
Just as I was about to check the book for the Rogers name, the woman who had been observing the photographs on the wall thanked Roberta for her help, told her to have a nice day, and left.
“James Rogers,” I said to myself, and turned the pages to the R’s. “James Rogers, wealthy banker from Philadelphia, moved his family to Minnesota just at the outbreak of the Civil War. He bought a lumber company and prepared to make a fortune here on the frontier. His oldest son went off to war and died at Gettysburg. After that, Mrs. Rogers, a God-fearing and good woman, began a coalition for grieving parents of Union Veterans. James, whose family was English in origin, started his business along the St. Croix River. He bought the old farm and house on the old Pine Road, where tragedy had befallen the Swedish family of Bloomquists just a few years before. He rebuilt the house and settled his family in for the long haul.”
I stopped and worked my lip between my fingers.
“What’s wrong?” Roberta asked.
Her voice startled me, because I had totally forgotten that I was standing in her office or that I was reading out loud. “Nothing, it’s just that Aunt Sissy said the house was rebuilt in 1878, which would
have been when the Hendricksons owned it.”
“So?”
“Well, James Rogers had to have either rebuilt the house or made major repairs to it or something, or his large family couldn’t have lived there for nearly seventeen years.”
“So?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “It’s just that any time there’s a discrepency in the story, it sort of calls out to me. Aunt Sissy’s real estate agent or whoever it was who told her the history of the house could have easily gotten things confused.”
I went back to reading. Rogers Logging became a successful company, and then one day he sold his company and moved out West. I turned the pages. “They have a picture of the house!” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“They have a picture of the house he lived in. Oh, that is too cool.”
“What are you looking for now?” Roberta asked. “Sissy told me you two found out who the girl was.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We did. But now I’m trying to find out more about the family and a little about the area that she lived in. Help me fill in the blanks more. And I want to see if I can find a member of her family who would like to have the manuscript.”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes growing wide. “You could donate it here, to the historical society. We’d love to have it.”
“I know,” I said. “Believe me, I’m considering it. I just want to make an offer to the family first. If they’re not interested, then it will probably go to you.”
She smiled from ear to ear. “What else can I do to help?”
“Have you read the novel, the diary, that my aunt has?”
“No,” she said.
“Well, I was really hoping to find out who the parson or preacher was at the Lutheran church in about 1858. Is there a shortcut to find that out?”
She laughed and then covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, you’re not from around here.”
“No,” I said. “What’s so funny?”
“Well, there’s no shortcut needed,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Well, because most everybody knows who that was. The kids are taught that in school, when they’re taught local history,” she said.
I was confused. “Why? I mean, why would that one person be plucked out of the past to be taught to the school kids?”
“Because Nagel’s the founder of Olin. The one you were asking about. He’s a hero around here.”
“A hero.”
“Yes,” she said. “And my ancestor. One of the reasons he’s actually getting a monument is because his great-great-great-granddaughter is the president of the historical society. Me.”
I was too stunned to speak.
“He was a German immigrant to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. You know, those Pennsylvania Dutch,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, trying to act as if I hadn’t just had the socks shocked off of me. “My husband has an ancestor who actually founded Germantown. I’m familiar with the Pennsylvania Dutch. But I thought they were usually Mennonites or Amish or Quakers. My husband’s were Mennonites.”
“Well, sure. But evidently Konrad Nagel decided that wasn’t the religion for him. He headed West, founded Olin, and started the Olin Lutheran Church,” she said.
My head hurt. I sort of listened to her titter on about Mr. Nagel, the hero, without really paying attention. This couldn’t be right. They were going to erect a monument to the man who had murdered Anna’s lover?
“Wait,” I said. “You’re sure he was the preacher during the year 1858?”
“He was the head of the church, right over there on Sixth Street, from 1854 until 1861, when he was murdered.”
“Murdered. Did you say murdered? You have an ancestor who was murdered?”
“Oh, yes. Terrible thing it was. Some stranger came to town during a blizzard and needed a place to stay. Konrad opened his doors to him and told him he could stay as long as he needed. The man killed him in the middle of the night.”
“You’re sure? How can you be sure?”
“Everybody knows that story. I mean, it’s known for three counties. The founder of a city, and a man of the cloth, can’t be butchered in the middle of the night by some stranger—whom he opened his doors to—and it not become known. That is the stuff of legends, for Pete’s sake. Besides, my grandma used to tell me stories about it. When it’s in the family, it sort of gets handed down.”
“Of course,” I said. I swiped at my brow and ran my fingers through my hair. I knew the book I held would have a nice big biography on Mr. Nagel. And it would most likely have a picture of him. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to look at his face. But, at the same time, what if the bio mentioned his apprentice?
Roberta went on. “Especially since his son had been brutally murdered as well. Two murders in a county with a population of maybe twelve hundred people, in the mid-nineteenth century … Well, that’s not only what legends are made of, but it’s headlines, too. I think the story was printed all the way down in the cities.”
His son. He had killed his own son? “So … he became a martyr, that son-of-a—”
“Mrs. O’Shea?” Roberta asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said. “So, obviously, Mr. Nagel had to have had more than one child. Right? Or are you descended from the son who was murdered?”
“No,” she said. I sighed with relief. “I’m descended from his daughter, Isabelle. She was already married and had moved out by the time Konrad moved here with Isaac.”
“Isaac?”
“His son. The one who was murdered.”
Oh, Lord. The lover’s name was Isaac. I had discovered the lover’s name!
“For some reason there are eleven years between Isabelle and Isaac,” she said. “Isabelle lived over in Cedar Springs. My grandma moved here, to Olin, in the 1920s. I was born here,” she said.
I just nodded my head. What could I say?
“So, why were you so interested in who the parson was over at the Lutheran church? Does Anna Bloomquist mention him in her diary?” she asked, her eyes full of stars. I knew what that was all about. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized that somebody, somewhere, had left a written record of a particular ancestor and how I would just happen to stumble upon it one day. Unfortunately, most of the time on the frontier, the people left nothing as personal as a diary or letters or a history. I found it a miracle if one could actually find a Bible record. Back East was a different story. Out on the frontier, the prairie, they were just too worried about surviving.
The seconds seemed to stretch out to minutes as I tried to think of what to say to her. I didn’t want to lie to her. But obviously she wasn’t prepared for the truth. Neither was the town, for that matter. And I couldn’t give her the diary. Not now. Once she read it she would know who it was. Especially since I’d been inquiring about him.
“Uh…”
“Well?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to read more of it.”
“Maybe I could read it,” she said. “I would recognize him if she wrote about him.”
“Oh. No. That’s … okay. I’m going to go make copies of these real quickly. All right? I’ll be right back,” I said and got the heck out of there. Holy cow, how do I get myself into these predicaments?
The grocery store was on the opposite side of town. I had to pass the Lutheran church as I walked over to make the copies. I just stared at the church as I walked by. I wanted to go inside. I wanted to walk to the cemetery. But first I had to make copies.
The grocery store was an old white brick building, with a silver metal awning that hung out over the sidewalk. There were decals on the windows advertising all the credit cards that they took, bread that was forty-nine cents a loaf, and Zest that was buy one, get one free. I went to the counter and asked where the copy machine was and the woman pointed me toward the back of the store, where the post office was. I made my copies, staring i
nto the room with the postal clerk and the little rows of brass mail boxes. I wondered if this was one of those towns where the residents had a rural route address, plus a box at the post office. New Kassel used to be like that until about ten years ago, and now we just get our mail delivered to the house. Before that, everybody had to go to the post office to get their mail.
I had to have one of the cashiers make change for my five-dollar bill, because the copier only took dimes and nickels. When I finished, I turned to leave and found Roberta standing behind me with her hands on her hips.
“Hi, Roberta. I was just on my way back with the books,” I said.
She put one hand out, palm up. I put the books in her hand. Honest, I wasn’t going to keep them.
“Is there a problem?”
She stepped up close to me. “I don’t know who you think you are, or what you think you’re up to. But I remembered Sissy telling us all at a prayer meeting one time that the novel she was reading—the one you both determined to be a diary—had a minister in it who was mean and abusive.”
I hung my head. What could I say?
“And now you’re suddenly all interested in Konrad Nagel. I’m not stupid. I may not come from a fancy historical society, where I get to wear big poofy dresses and give tours in big gigantic houses, but I can put two and two together. And if you think for one minute—no, make that one second—that my ancestor is the man Anna wrote about in her diary … you are so, so, so, so, so mistaken.”
People were gathered now, looking over the rack of Hostess Cupcakes and from behind the display of Doritos.
“I … Roberta…”
“That’s Mrs. Flagg, to you,” she said.
“I don’t know what to say. The evidence is there,” I said.
“Don’t you evidence me!”
“But—”
“How would you feel if it were your ancestor?”
“Well, actually, I had a similar thing happen in my family,” I said. “We are who we are, Roberta. I mean, Mrs. Flagg. What came before us is before us. You have no bearing on Konrad Nagel’s behavior. You can’t be held responsible for his actions. I mean, you wouldn’t be who you are if you weren’t descended from him. A good him or a bad him. You’re still you because of him. So, you just have to accept it.”
In Sheep's Clothing Page 9
