“Yes, I know. He’s alive.”
Her face was blank. “What?”
“Her father is alive. I haven’t contacted him as of yet. I’m not sure how to approach him.”
A tear welled up in her eye. “My God. After all these years. I have a grandfather,” she said, amazed.
“Yes,” I assured her. “I may try and contact an aunt or uncle or old neighbor first and get their reaction. Sometimes people don’t appreciate surprises like these, especially at the age of seventy.”
“Of course. You’ll let me know, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
Our salads arrived with that wonderful bread I always eat too much of. “I was curious,” I said. “Where are your mother’s things?”
“The police told me a few days ago that I could go through her things now. Jeff wants very little, just a few photos. John only wants a few sentimental things. Things that they acquired on vacations. That sort of thing. So I’ve moved her personal things to my house. I haven’t moved her furniture or anything.”
“I’m sorry, but who is John?” I asked.
The look on her face was worth a thousand dollars. She was upset with herself for letting something slip.
“He’s Mother’s boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend? Oh. Well that’s certainly none of my business. I was just slightly confused for a second. I thought maybe John was a son I knew nothing about.”
“No, no. They’d been seeing each other for years. It really wasn’t all that serious. I just took it as two older people having somebody to do things with. If it was any more serious than that, Mother never let on,” she finished with a smile.
“May I see her father’s letters?” I asked to change the subject.
“Of course. Why?”
“They may give me some insight into the situation. Or other relatives that I could talk to.” Or why he never made contact with Viola again.
“Sure. We can run by my house on your way home.”
Half an hour later, after much small talk, I followed her to her house, about fifteen minutes from the restaurant. She drove a cute sports car, red. It seemed to be the only nonconservative thing about her.
True to my expectations, she left half of her salad and ate ten bites of her manicotti. It was miraculous. She never lost any lipstick, and no food clung to the crevices in her perfect teeth.
I couldn’t help but wonder if it was painful to live like that.
Her house was a large two-story, with a three-car garage, in Webster Groves, which is one of the more expensive areas of St. Louis County to live. The inside was as immaculate and symmetrical as her lawn had been. Neutral browns, beiges, and an occasional splash of salmon dominated her color scheme. Everything was wide open and her furniture was sparse. Probably on purpose, to add to the effect of having tons of room.
Within a few minutes she had gone to get a box containing her grandfather’s letters.
“Thank you. I’ll bring them back as soon as I’ve read them.”
“Sure,” she said.
The next thing I knew, I was being attacked by a killer Yorkshire terrier. The damned thing was yapping incessantly and biting my pants leg.
“What the…?”
“Sparky, get down!” Rita ordered.
I’ve had dogs of my own and I’m usually the first to make friends with a stray. This little dog really unsettled me. I had never had a dog treat me this way.
“Sparky!” Rita finally corralled the little devil and set him outside. “God, I’m sorry. It’s my mother’s dog and he does that to everybody! He does it to me when I first come home, and I live here.”
“How nice…” Suddenly I realized what she had just said. “Your mother’s dog?”
“Yes.”
“Did Sheriff Brooke ask you about the dog?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I told him that Jeff picks the dog up on Thursdays.”
“Why?”
“Shots. He takes him to the vet to get his allergy shots. Mom couldn’t bear to see the needle go in. Or hear him yelp for that matter. It was just a little errand he did for Mom.” She smiled, face flushing. “Now I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Hmm,” was all I managed.
That little errand that Jeff did for his mother could have aided in her death. If that dog reacted like that to all people, it could have warned her that somebody was in her house. Those stupid, trivial things that can put the wheels in motion were enough to drive me crazy.
Six
The rain poured from the skies as if there were no tomorrow. It was one of those perfectly puky days, like I remember as a kid. I’d sit in the classroom and stare at the windows as the rain slid down the glass, dripping off of the metal.
Rain in school didn’t seem real. The sky turned dark, and the classroom followed into its murky shade. It gave the classroom an eerie feeling.
That is how I felt at the moment. I had caught my usual spring cold, brought on by allergies. My head felt as though it had been bludgeoned with a rubber sledgehammer, and my nose was raw. I had taken some over-the-counter sinus medication, which I should know better than to do. My legs were jumpy, and I could actually feel my hair growing. And I still had a stopped-up nose.
I had read every letter that Eugene Counts had written to Viola Pritcher. I had gleaned a few new names to check out, but nothing earth-shattering.
I had also received the death certificate for Eugene’s mother, Edith Mae Chappuis Counts. I was really excited about this. Most people get excited over new cars; I get excited over death certificates. It’s no wonder my husband worries about my state of mind.
Edith Mae Chappuis Counts was born in 1899. Her parents were Gaston Chappuis, born in France, and Ellenore Rousson, born in Ste. Genevieve County, Missouri. The certificate told the date, time, and place of death. I couldn’t read who the attending physician was. But the most interesting piece of information was the informant. It was one Louise Mary Shenk, living in Washington, Missouri. This was Edith’s daughter.
Who better than Eugene’s own sister to talk to? She could give me some idea if Eugene would like to see Rita and Jeff.
Armed with new information, I headed downtown to the St. Louis library. I probably shouldn’t have driven in my state of disorientation, but I couldn’t let my sinuses rule my life.
The library, located on Olive Street, is a massive structure with about forty steps up the front of it. The ceilings are ornate, and huge marble pillars are everywhere. I think they even stuck them in places they didn’t need to be. The history and genealogy room is quite impressive, as is the microfilm room downstairs.
I found a corner of the genealogy room and set up my pencils, paper, and briefcase. My first stop was back out to the center room, where the majority of the computers are. This is the information area, complete with a desk full of employees to retrieve books from the stacks.
One computer, however, has the telephone and address directory for the United States. If the person’s unlisted or listed under another name, it’s not much help.
I punched a bunch of keys until the computer was ready to take my request. I typed: Louise Shenk, Washington, Missouri. No Louise. Next I tried just the last name, Shenk, and the same city and state.
There were four Shenks living in Washington and I printed them all. They were all men and one could have been Louise’s husband.
I went back to the history and genealogy room, scanned the wall that had the books on Missouri, and pulled out a copy of Ste. Genevieve County Marriages 1870–1900. Eugene’s mother was born in 1899, so I assumed that her parents were married sometime between 1870 and 1899. Sure enough, they were married in 1896. So I filled that blank in on Norah’s chart and went to make a copy of the page.
Next I pulled out the census index for Missouri for the year 1870. I assumed that Ellenore and Gaston were born before 1870. If I could find them in the census, then I’d know who their parents were. The index gave me the households in S
te. Genevieve County with the last names Chappuis and Rousson. I copied the page numbers and headed down to the microfiche and microfilm room.
I found them both, and thus added their birth years, and their parents’ names and birth years, to Norah’s chart. This is how the majority of the day went.
Six hours later I walked out of there with red eyes and a tense neck. But I had also nearly filled in Norah’s five-generation chart. All in all it was a good day, except for having to run up and down all of those steps to feed the parking meter. It’s no wonder people don’t go to the library. It is too much work.
When I reached New Kassel, it was nearly time for dinner. I drove down Stuckmeyer Road and passed the Old Mill Stream, which is a restaurant now. It used to be a mill, hence the name. It still has its big wheel that took water from Kassel Creek. Mayor Castlereagh owns it now, and it was packed with customers.
I turned left and passed the three streets until I came to my driveway. There was a strange car parked in it, which was not all that unusual, but I wasn’t expecting anybody, and I didn’t recognize it. Somehow, I always feel on the defensive when I enter my own home with a stranger awaiting my arrival.
My house is white with green shutters, with a large front and back porch. Once I was inside my house, the aroma of my mother’s sauerkraut, sausage, potato cakes, and baked beans sent my stomach into fits. I tripped over Mary’s rocking horse, and let out a few expletives. The television blared, Dark Wing something or other, and that aggravated the heck out of me. One big rule in my house is no television during meals. Nobody talks to each other if the TV’s on.
I turned it off with my thigh—yes, I’m one of the few cavemen without a remote control—and stopped dead in the doorway.
Sheriff Colin Brooke sat at my table, with my family, eating what was assuredly my dinner. He was charming the socks off of my mother, and even had Rudy laughing and pounding his hand on the table at something that was just “too funny.”
Before I could utter something completely rude and justified, my mother interceded. “Victory, Sheriff Brooke…”
“Ms. Keith, call me Colin,” he said, smiling at her.
“Oh, pah-leeze!” I said. “What is this?”
“We have a guest,” Mom said.
“Mom,” Rachel said. “Mom,” she repeated, like all six-year-olds do when you don’t answer them at the speed of light. My kids expect me to answer them before they ask the question!
“What?”
“He has a gun,” she said, her black eyes huge.
As if I needed to hear that.
“Mother,” I began, “you should be more careful who you invite to our house,” I said. She glared at me.
“What do you want?” I asked him. I wouldn’t get any prizes for being subtle. Sometimes subtlety only causes confusion.
We have only four kitchen chairs, so I grabbed a chair from the dining room as I picked up a potato cake and ate it. Sheriff Brooke watched me, his eyes trying desperately to communicate silently.
“He called first,” Mom assured me. “To say he was coming, so I had him come for dinner.” June Cleaver had just invaded my mother’s body. I couldn’t help but feel that I was missing something.
Rudy was being himself. He was genuinely entertained by Brooke. Rudy could not see beyond the surface of the dust on the mantel, much less the surface of people. Had they all forgotten my ill feelings for the sheriff? Had they all forgotten that this man threw me in jail when I was trying to get a pregnant woman to a hospital?
“Forgive my wife,” Rudy said. “Hormones.”
I swatted Rudy a good one on the side of his head. “I don’t have hormones, dear. Not any! I don’t have any!”
Obviously, they all believed me.
Mary took that opportune time to fling her sauerkraut across the table, hitting Sheriff Brooke in the head. I wanted to yell, “Good shot!” but I played the part of mother and reprimanded her. Even if it was done with a smile.
“So, Sheriff,” I said, “what brings you to my house?”
“It can wait until we are finished eating,” he said.
“Well, you’ll be waiting forever, because my mother makes sure everybody is stuffed, and then she serves dessert. It’s quite an ordeal,” I said.
“One that I’m suffering through quite nicely,” he answered.
Was he flirting with my mother? No, surely not. She was at least twelve years older than he.
Sheriff Brooke never spoke another word as to why he was at my house until we were completely finished with dinner. It was dusk now, but still light enough to see. Lavender was the primary color in the evening sky and the smell of grass and fresh rain had coiled themselves together. It had stopped raining about five that evening, but the local news assured us of more.
My backyard is large. We are on a two-acre lot. Over half of it is in the back of the house. Sheriff Brooke and I walked along the brick path that was lined with impatiens. All was calm and serene.
Suddenly Bob came squawking across the backyard. Bob is our rooster. He never hesitated as he headed straight for Sheriff Brooke’s ankles. He pecked and squawked, and pecked some more. Sheriff Brooke tried desperately to get away from Bob without actually kicking him. He jumped on one foot, then on the other. He skipped along the sidewalk into the yard, back onto the sidewalk and then back into the yard, all the while throwing his feet out away from Bob. He looked like Michael Jackson doing a hoedown.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “The chicken coop isn’t quite finished.” I swatted at Bob and then stomped my foot. “Go on, Bob, get.”
I couldn’t help but smile. And then I giggled. And then before I knew it, I was laughing heartily. “He has this thing about strange males. It’s a dominance thing.”
“It’s all right,” he said, cautious of every step he took. After all, there were a lot of things one could step into in my backyard. “I’m surprised Bill hasn’t made you get rid of the chickens. And the rooster,” he said.
“You know the mayor?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t say how or where from, just “Yeah.” “He’s tried,” I said, “but we’re not breaking any laws. I suppose you know that he hates anything furry or feathery.”
“Yeah,” he said as he shoved his hands in his jeans. “I didn’t want you to have to come to the station so I could talk with you,” he finally said. “I thought this would be better.”
Something was bothering him. I don’t think I have ever seen him quite so reflective. At least not around me.
“Did you know she was divorced?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Have you talked to him?”
“Yesterday. He’s a strange sort. Lives in Ladue. Recluse.”
“Oh,” I said. Ladue was one of the wealthiest parts of St. Louis County. A person could drop eight hundred thousand dollars on a home easily.
“Rita told me you were doing a family tree for her?” he asked.
“I told you that the day … the day she was killed. You weren’t interested. Why now?” I asked, worried.
He looked up at the stars and breathed deeply. It was a cleansing breath, I thought. One that came from the bottom of the lungs. I wondered what it must be like to have to deal with death, Norah’s kind of death, on any regular basis.
“Rita said something about Norah’s dad?”
He finally got to the point he had been trying to make.
“She never met him. I found out that he was still alive; she thought he was dead. Why?”
“So she never talked to him?” he asked, discouraged.
“I never got the chance to tell her where he was,” I said, unsure of where this was going.
“Have you talked to him?” he asked.
“No. I didn’t know how he would react. I was going to ask his sister first. I figure if the guy has never bothered to even see if Viola was breathing, there may be a reason.”
“Can I have his sister’s address?” he asked.
“Do
you think that’s wise?”
“I don’t think that’s for you to say. This is my investigation. I want to talk to his sister.”
“I just thought that you might really shake the woman up. She doesn’t even know Norah exists. So you’re going to go to her house and tell her she had a niece that’s been murdered, and her brother is a suspect, all in one visit. It just seems … cruel or something.”
“I don’t give a damn how it seems,” he said. “Somebody butchered that woman, and I don’t know where to start.”
“Random,” I remember thinking out loud.
“What?”
It was early enough in the year that it still got chilly when the sun set. I hugged myself tightly. “What if it was random?”
“Then I’m screwed. But I don’t believe it was. There was nothing missing, no sexual assault. No forced entry.” He again breathed deeply. “I’d say she was killed for a reason. Not random.”
“What about fibers and such?” I asked.
“All kinds. We’ve got to have something to compare it to first,” he said. “Anybody that’s been in her house in the last few weeks will have left behind fibers and hairs anyway. I have to have a suspect first, and then compare fibers and hairs.”
“What about John Murphy?” I asked, and was rather pleased with myself when it was clear he had no idea whom I was referring to.
“Something Rita said in passing to me at lunch the other day. She said that Norah had a boyfriend. One that she had been seeing for years, but had never married. I can’t believe you didn’t know about him,” I said.
“Well, surprisingly, none of her neighbors knew she had a boyfriend. There was nothing in the house to indicate that there was a man that spent any amount of time there. And Jeff completely lied to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked him if his mother was seeing anybody and he said no. I didn’t bother asking Rita, because why would Jeff lie to me?” His question seemed to bother him the more he thought about it. “I even checked everybody’s name that was on the register at the funeral.”
Just then Mayor Castlereagh appeared over the top of the fencing, on a ladder. He pretended to be pruning a tree. At seven in the evening? It wasn’t even the season to prune anything. All I could see of him was his bald head. Finally, he waved. I waved back.
Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret Page 5
