In Sheep's Clothing

by Rett MacPherson

“Visiting my aunt. And the guys were fishing,” I said.

  He sucked his teeth, as if he’d eaten corn on the cob for lunch. “So, what did you want to see me about?”

  “Look, I know you can’t share the specifics with me about the case,” I said. “But, I was wondering … today … who … how did you find out that somebody had been murdered at the marina? Was there a 911 call?”

  He sighed. “Why?” Then he tapped his pencil on his desk.

  “Because if whoever called 911 actually saw a body lying in a pool of its own blood, with the knife sticking out of its neck, and my stepfather was nowhere around, then I’d think you’d have a tough time continuing to believe that my stepfather killed him,” I said, as calmly as I could manage.

  He seemed to acquiesce, even if only his mind. I could see it on his face. “I’ll check into it.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s all I ask.”

  “Does it hurt?” he asked and pointed to my head.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think I’m getting just a small taste of what it feels like to be the elephant man. My head actually feels heavier on this side.”

  He tapped his pencil again.

  “I’m sure it will feel better tomorrow,” I said.

  He snickered.

  “Also … I know this probably has nothing to do with the case, but I actually spoke to Mr. Bloomquist earlier in the day,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I went out on the lake with the guys for the morning and then they brought me back at lunchtime and I went … I went and did some sightseeing,” I said. “But before I left, I talked to Mr. Bloomquist.”

  “What about?”

  “Well, his family tree, actually. See, I’m a genealogist and I work for the historical society for Granite County, Missouri,” I said. “And, well, it’s a long convoluted story about why I was speaking to him, but when I first approached him, he wasn’t sure who I was or what I wanted. He said something odd.”

  “What was that?”

  “He said, ‘You can tell Kimberly Canton my answer is still no.’ Do you have any idea who Kimberly Canton is, or what he was referring to?” I asked.

  His expression dropped. “Real estate developer,” he said. “She’s been trying to get everybody to sell their lakefront property.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think she’s trying to find a good-sized lake, upstate a ways, that she can monopolize. You know, go in and just turn the whole thing into a resort. But she’d have to have a one-hundred percent buyout. Or at least close to it,” he said. “She’s been after Brian to sell that marina for a long time. She wants my measly five acres, too. Some of us have sold, some of us are still holding out.”

  “How much does Brian own?”

  “I think he’s got thirty acres or so altogether. Hell, some people own as much as a hundred or so acres, not all of it shore, you understand, but still land that connects to the lake,” he said. “It’s big now. Up on Superior, if your family bought land fifty or so years ago, you’d be a millionaire today.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Now, Olin Lake isn’t quite as prime as Superior,” he said. “But it’s still choice land nonetheless. It’d make a nice little resort town, don’t you think?”

  “Well—”

  “Some people think so. There’s a lot of pressure to sell. Olin would suddenly be on the map, so to speak,” he said. “I mean, fishing season already brings a horde of tourists and fisherman. But nothing like it would be if it was a resort town. What I can’t get people to understand is that if one person, Ms. Canton, owns it all, then it’s profit for Ms. Canton, not the town of Olin. Or any of its people.”

  “I understand. The town I live in is a tourist town. But all of the townsfolk own their own businesses. We work together as a town, but if business is good, it’s good for the individual, not one big corporation.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “That’s what I—and the mayor—have been trying to tell people.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. You think you need to question Ms. Canton? I mean, Brian seemed pretty irritated when he thought she’d sent me. Maybe there’s something to it,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “All right,” I said. I wrote down Aunt Sissy’s phone number and my cell-phone number. “This is where you can reach me. If anything should develop where my stepfather is concerned.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Have a nice evening, Mrs. O’Shea.”

  “You, too, Sheriff.”

  Sixteen

  My head hurt a lot worse the next morning. It wasn’t quite as swollen, but all of my movements seemed to feel as though they were happening ten seconds after I commanded them to move. I rolled over, bunching all of the blankets up as I went, to find Rudy staring at the ceiling. “You all right?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

  I kissed him and laid my head on his chest. “As lame as it sounds, all I can say is it will go away. The vision of … it. The blood. Believe me, I know.”

  “Yeah, I know you know. Now I’m wondering if I’ve been an insensitive jerk to you,” he said.

  I giggled. “A jerk sometimes. Insensitive sometimes, but never the two together.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m joking,” I said. “You’re my rock. Always have been.”

  We lay there a few more minutes until we smelled breakfast cooking. “You know, I could get used to this. Having breakfast ready when I wake up,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “But it ain’t going to happen,” I said.

  “No,” Rudy said. “You gonna call your mom?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “When?”

  “After breakfast,” I said.

  “Well, let’s go eat so you can call her,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah, can’t wait.”

  We fumbled our way out of bed, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. I let my nose be my guide, since at least one of my eyes wasn’t seeing too well.

  “Oh, you look like hell,” Aunt Sissy said when I came into the room.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You don’t look too hot, either,” she said to Rudy. She put his coffee down in front of him.

  “Where’s Uncle Joe?” I asked.

  “He’s outside getting ready to work on that shelter,” she said. “He could use a hand today, if you’re not going to be out on the lake today, Rudy.”

  “No, I’m not going to be fishing today,” he said. “Probably won’t fish again until I’m safe and sound in my own state. I’d be happy to help Uncle Joe with the shelter.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Aunt Sissy put the food on the table. I tried to eat with my head propped on one hand. Don’t ask. It just felt better that way. We were all quiet, just shoveling the food in. Nobody had anything important to say, and we all felt stupid for making idle chitchat. So we just said nothing.

  Finally, I broke the silence. “Is there somebody other than Roberta Flagg who works at the historical society?” I asked.

  “Why?” Aunt Sissy asked.

  “Because I’d like to get back in there and look at some things, but I really don’t want to run the risk of ticking off Miss Minnesota Boxing Champion,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’ll have to go tomorrow. It’s the only day other than Sunday that she takes off. She has Tiny Holmann watch things for her.”

  “Great,” I said. “Then I’ll go to the library today. The one in Cedar Springs. You can take me there. Right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “So did you make it to the cemetery?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She glanced at Rudy.

  “He knows everything,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “How did I know what?” she countered.

  “That Konrad Nagel couldn’t have killed his son? When did you
have a chance to check it out? You didn’t even know Konrad’s name. You couldn’t have figured it out before me,” I said.

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Then why did you send me to the cemetery?”

  “Because of Emelie. I had to deliver a tree to the Catholic church in town. I got to thinking that now that I had a name to go with this story … Anna Bloomquist … maybe I could find where she was buried. You know, something tangible. I wanted to see it for myself.”

  “I certainly understand that,” I said.

  “Boy, does she,” Rudy added.

  “And so I went to the Lutheran church, went out into the graveyard, and found Anna’s grave. And I found her parents’ graves. But I could never find the grave for her daughter, Emelie. No marker, nothing,” she said.

  “I noticed that, too.”

  Aunt Sissy got up and began putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. She talked while she piled them in. “So, all the way home I kept thinking, Where is little Emelie?”

  Silence hung in the air.

  “Where do you think little Emelie is?” Rudy asked.

  She shut the door to the dishwasher and looked at me. “I don’t know. I was hoping Torie could tell me that. It’s not the end of the story until I know where Emelie Bloomquist is. If she’s buried here on this property, instead of a cemetery, then I want to know where the grave is. I want to put a marker up. If she’s not…”

  “If she’s not, what?”

  “I don’t know. If she’s not buried in the cemetery with her parents and she’s not buried here, then where is she?”

  “Oh, jeez,” I said. “Again, Aunt Sissy, we may never know the answer to that question.”

  “I don’t care. I want to try,” she said.

  “All right,” I said, holding up a hand in surrender. “I noticed that Sven is not buried at the Lutheran cemetery, either. Maybe there’s a family plot somewhere else. Like, like the cousins that they lived with when they first moved down here,” I suggested.

  “The ones in the census? That Karl and Sven lived with after the fire?”

  “Right,” I said. “Maybe they have a family plot on their property. I need to look at the land records and find out where their property would have been. And who knows, if Sven isn’t buried here in Olin, maybe he moved to one of the neighboring towns. Maybe she’s buried there.”

  “Yeah, but why would Sven wait years to bury his niece?” Rudy asked.

  “Maybe he didn’t, maybe he did. Maybe he just had her moved. Hell, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just throwing out ideas. He seems to be the one that had the conscience in the family. He reported the deaths in the first place. He’s the one who convinced Anna to live, for the baby’s sake. He’s the one who took Anna to Cedar Springs to have Emelie baptized—”

  I stopped.

  Aunt Sissy and I both looked at each other. We had the same thought.

  “Maybe he buried her at that Lutheran church in Cedar Springs, for the same reason that they baptized her there,” I said.

  “That’s an idea,” Aunt Sissy said.

  “Yes, but separating mother and daughter?” Rudy asked.

  “If Sven thought some harm would come to her grave or something … you know, because of a prejudice. He might have felt it was worth separating them. Or maybe he buried her there simply because she was baptized there and the people didn’t have the ill feelings that the church in Olin had. I honestly don’t know. She may not even be in Cedar Springs. It’s just an idea. Either way, I’m going to check out some of the records in Cedar Springs.”

  “So what do you think happened to Sven? If he’s not buried here, he must have moved,” Rudy said.

  “Yes, but keep in mind that he could just as easily be buried on his land, wherever that is. We know it’s not here, because by 1861 it belonged to the Rogers family. Or he could have died on a trip somewhere … Just because he’s not at the church cemetery doesn’t mean he didn’t live here. But if he’s got descendants here—Brian Bloomquist was one of them—it’s safe to say he didn’t go too far,” I said.

  “So, what was this about Konrad Nagel?” Aunt Sissy asked.

  “Well, you know how Anna says in her diary that the parson killed her lover, which we now know is Isaac Nagel, the parson’s son,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Konrad couldn’t have killed Isaac.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Konrad was murdered two days before Isaac was killed,” I said. “There’s no way.”

  Aunt Sissy looked out her kitchen window a moment. “Did they ever find out who killed Konrad?”

  “Well, I haven’t been able to get my hands on any real documents, newspaper clippings or anything. According to Roberta, he was killed by a stranger who had come to town and needed a place to stay. Parson Nagel let him stay at his home and the stranger killed him in the middle of the night.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Aunt Sissy said. “I mean, we’ve all heard the story vaguely.”

  “What’s bothering you?” I asked, noticing that her eyes were seeing something beyond the here and now.

  “I’m just wondering if the same person who killed the parson turned around and killed his son Isaac two days later,” she said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if we’ll ever know. One thing’s for sure, though.”

  “What?” Rudy asked.

  “I don’t think it was a stranger that killed the parson. Not if he killed Isaac, too.”

  “Why?” Rudy asked.

  “Because why would a perfect stranger kill a parson and then lurk nearby and kill the parson’s son two days later? I mean, that seems more like a personal vendetta,” I said.

  “I agree,” Rudy said.

  “Or unless Isaac was a witness to the first murder, and the killer wanted him dead so there would be no case against him,” Aunt Sissy said.

  “Yes, but whoever killed Isaac hung him in a barn for everybody to see. Not only did he hang Isaac in a barn, he hung Isaac in Anna Bloomquist’s barn,” I said. “Why would he do that if he was trying to erase a witness?”

  Rudy and Aunt Sissy both chewed on that for a minute. My mind reeled, and that just added to the pain I was already feeling. “Do you have some Advil or something?”

  “Yes,” Aunt Sissy said. “How many do you want?”

  “As many as you can give me that will equal a prescription dose,” I said.

  “Man,” Rudy said and shook his head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I want to come with you guys today, instead of building a shelter,” he said. “This is fascinating.”

  “Now you know how I become so obsessed so easily,” I said.

  “Amazing,” he said. “You just think of the olden days as days filled with going to church, plowing fields, warding off disease, plowing fields, going to church. I mean, you don’t think of the past as being personal. You know, that those people did exactly what we do every day, loved their spouses, their kids, and life, just like us.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s easy to depersonalize the past.”

  “You have to call your mother,” he said.

  I sighed. “Give me the phone.”

  Rudy gave me the phone and I dialed it as Aunt Sissy came back into the room with her palm full of Advil and handed me a big glass of water. I swallowed four of them just as my mother answered the phone.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  “Hello,” she said. “It’s early. Something wrong?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “How are the kids?”

  “Getting ready for school,” she said. “I keep telling Rachel that if she keeps looking at herself in the mirror she’s going to grow a mustache. She doesn’t believe me. What’s wrong? Why are you calling?”

  “Well, Mom. Colin’s all right,” I said.

  “Oh, nothing ever ends well that starts like that.”

  “
No, seriously, he’s fine. But he’s sorta been arrested.”

  “Is that all? You’ve been arrested twice. What’s the problem?” she asked.

  “He’s been arrested for murder.”

  It was quiet on the other end of the line and then she just burst into laughter. I let her have her laugh because I knew she wouldn’t be laughing later. “You’ve got to be kidding. Come on,” she said.

  “No, I’m not kidding. He’s been arrested for murder. They will probably bring charges against him today, unless this one lead turns things in his favor,” I said.

  Her voice changed. No nonsense. Serious. “What happened?”

  “Somebody killed the owner of the marina that he and Rudy were fishing at. Colin was found holding the knife. He was just trying to save the guy,” I assured her. “But he’s from out of town and they aren’t looking at it that way.”

  “He’s a sheriff, for crying out loud. He doesn’t kill people. He stops people who kill people,” she said.

  “Well, I know that. And you know that. But law enforcement officers have been known to murder people on occasion. I suppose, since he was holding the murder weapon, they want to make sure he’s not one of those hideous few,” I said.

  “I don’t believe this. He goes fishing and gets arrested. How is that possible?” she asked. Before I could answer she answered. “I’ll tell you how. He’s with you. I have never in all my life seen anybody who has a little black cloud following them around like you do. What is wrong with you, Torie?”

  “Well, gee, thanks, Mom.”

  “You need to see somebody,” she said. “A shrink. No, a medium. An exorcist.”

  “Mother!”

  “I just don’t believe this,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Call me when you find out something. And tell my husband to call me as soon as they allow him a phone call.”

  I didn’t tell her that he could have called her last night. That would probably have sent her over the edge. I just said all right. “Tell the kids to be good. I love you, Mom.”

  I guess she was weighing how much she loved me or not. Finally, she said, “I love you, too. Hurry.” And she hung up.

  “Well?” Rudy asked.

  “She took it well.”

  Seventeen