Oh God, how awful for Norah.
Oh God, my poor head.
* * *
If a human being has ever had a hangover, it must be pure stupidity that makes her repeat the act. Or else she figures, Oh, it won’t happen to me.
Well, it happened.
It took me a half an hour that morning just to figure out why I was on my couch. Another half an hour went by before I realized how come there were so many ugly old men in the living room with me.
But it was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon before I remembered what it was that the George Jones song had triggered in my head the night before. Now things were starting to look very peculiar. I could not ignore the possibility that Michael Ortlander had murdered Norah. But if I was right about Rita and John, it certainly threw a new twist on things. Suddenly, the absence of an alibi really seemed condemning where John Murphy was concerned. Could Norah have confronted him about his affair with Rita and a fight evolved? Could John have gone nuts as a result of this argument and killed her? Could Rita have gone a little crazy when her mother found out? No, Rita had an alibi, I reminded myself.
I managed to eat a little something. Three pieces of plain bread and a glass of milk. Everybody has his magic cure-all for a hangover. Mine is bread and milk. I’ve only had to use it three or four times in my life. I must have been sitting at the kitchen table for half of the day. Mom came into the kitchen and opened the blinds, and even though the sky was gray and overcast, my pupils dilated, sending an incredible pain through my head.
“Aargh,” I said.
“I can’t believe you got drunk,” Mom said in her best parental voice.
“I only had four beers. I don’t remember intentionally setting out to get drunk,” I said. “It just sort of happened. I got all caught up in the music.”
“Now you know why I divorced your father.”
Just then the guys in the living room picked up their instruments and started playing music all over again. How could they keep finding songs they hadn’t already played? It was Saturday; this would go on until Sunday night, at least.
“That was the other reason,” Mom added with a nod of her head toward the living room.
“Thank God Rudy doesn’t play an instrument. I’m going to have him take the girls to his parents’ house for the rest of the day. They have to be tired of hearing that,” I said. “And the next time Dad calls and wants to borrow my house, make up an excuse. Tell him … the chickens are allergic to it or something.”
“Won’t have to. Bill called this morning and wasn’t happy.”
“Oh, it never occurred to me that he could hear the music that well. I mean, he is a couple of acres away.”
“Well, he did. Also, Rita called. She said that she would be home today if you wanted to come by.”
I said nothing for the longest time. I was too busy trying to figure out what it was that I was going to say to her. I’d been trying to get an appointment with her for a few days because I had wanted to talk with her since I’d seen her father. But now I suspected she was the one that John Murphy had been having the affair with. How could I bring up the subject without actually accusing her? And if I was wrong?
“You do want to see her, don’t you?” Mom asked.
“You better believe it,” I said. “I just don’t know what to say to her,” I said, swallowing hard at the bile rising in my throat.
“Instead of trying all of these concoctions not to throw up,” she said, “why don’t you just stick your finger down your throat and get it over with. Get the poison out of your system. You’ll feel better. Just confront it,” she said.
Why are mothers always trying to get the poison out of your system? If all the things in the world that supposedly caused poison in your system did actually exist, the human race would have died centuries ago.
“Works that way with people, too,” she said. “Sometimes it’s better if you just get the poison out, up front.”
I hate it when my mother gets philosophical.
“Also, Wilma called.”
“Wilma?” I asked apprehensively.
“She said to tell you that one of Norah’s employees is Fern Kennard. She lives in those apartments off of Hanover and the outer road.”
“Oh,” I said. I had forgotten that I had asked Wilma and Sylvia if they knew any of Norah’s employees. “Great.”
“Is something wrong?” my mother asked.
“No.”
I started to say something and decided not to. When I had managed to change my clothes and brush my teeth, I made my way though the amplifiers, instruments, and musicians to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I made it to my car.
Starting the car, I found a radio station that played some good solid rock and roll. As much fun as I’d had, I’d listened to entirely too much crying-in-your-beer music. It’s just too bad that I didn’t do more crying in my beer than drinking it.
George Thorogood and the Destroyers pounded out the harsh chords to “Bad to the Bone.” I sighed with relief.
I pulled into the parking lot of the Royal Court Apartments minutes later. The complex was clean and neat, with two stories. The tenants of Royal Court had access to a swimming pool and game room, and dinky apartments with one or two bedrooms, for four hundred bucks a month.
I had no idea which one Fern lived in, so I checked the names on the boxes in each building and I finally found an F. Kennard, number 23B. I headed to her apartment and hoped that I didn’t look as rough as I felt. I hadn’t put on any makeup, but at least I’d brushed my hair. I was wearing a pair of navy blue shorts and a plain, dark green shirt with white tennis shoes. No socks. I usually wear socks, but I didn’t want to mess with them.
I rang the bell. Fern answered in seconds. When I saw her, I knew I had seen her around town. She was about sixty, with gray hair and eyeglasses from the 1960s. They weren’t very thick, and pointed up on the ends.
“Ms. Kennard,” I said in my most professional tone. “I was wondering if I could speak to you about Norah Zumwalt.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“A private dick?”
“A what?” I asked. Then, realizing that a private dick wasn’t a venereal disease, but a private investigator, I answered, “No, just a friend. I’m Victory O’Shea.” I extended a hand, which she took and shook graciously.
She opened the door all the way then and let me inside. Her apartment was small. The kitchen and living room ran together with just a breakfast bar to separate them. Over the sofa hung a very large painting of a poodle. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a monument to a former pet.
“I’ve already told the police everything I know,” she said. Her dentures clicked as she spoke.
“How well did you know her?” I asked.
“I’ve worked for her since she owned the shop, about three years. If you’re here to tell me that she was a drug lord or something, I don’t want to hear it. I like to keep some illusions in my old age.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, nothing like that. I just want to know if she had any trouble at work. Bill collectors, any enemies? An irate ex-employee?”
“No. Her ex-husband paid her enough money that she didn’t need to work. She was fairly well off so there were no troubles in the way of creditors. I just can’t believe she was murdered,” she said. “It’s always a shock when somebody dies or is murdered, but I keep expecting her to call me. I want her to tell me in her soft voice that it was all a mistake,” she said, and sniffled.
Believe me, I thought, it was no mistake.
“Did she have any fights with anybody the week she was murdered?”
“Well, I know she was always fighting with her kids. But, honey, who doesn’t? She loved them, unconditionally. I don’t think that they loved her like that, though. Her kids only loved her when she did what they wanted. Other than John, she didn’t really have anybody else,” she said.
“And there were no argum
ents bad enough to kill her over?” I asked.
“Lord no, nothing worth killing somebody over. But what do I know? Kids are killing each other over their jackets. Ridiculous, spoiled-rotten people, that’s all I got to say.”
I couldn’t agree with her more.
“People don’t know the value of life,” she said.
“Have you heard of a woman named Cora Landing? Did you ever hear Norah mention her?”
“No.”
“Did you know John Murphy very well?”
She grinned slightly. “I worked for her for a year and a half and didn’t know she had a boyfriend. Come to find out, she’d been dating him for about seven years!”
“She acted okay with the relationship?” I asked.
“If there was anything wrong, she didn’t let on. But then, I don’t think she would have let it show even if there was something wrong. She was that type of person.”
Yes, I was beginning to see. It seemed as though Norah had to keep up a happy facade. The portrait being painted of her life by friends and family was of a woman that couldn’t be the fault of anything.
“Are you the woman that works at the Gaheimer House?” Fern asked me.
“Yes,” I said. It is not unusual for people to know me and for me not to know them. This is a town whose very survival centers around its historical landmarks, its festivals. When you are involved in all of that, you get to be known even if it is only by name.
“Norah admired you so much,” she said. “I thought your name was familiar.”
“What do you mean Norah admired me? I’d barely ever spoken to her until about a week before she died, when she came to the office.”
“Well, nonetheless. She knew who you were, and she used to say that if she could live anybody’s life it would be yours.”
I was dumbfounded. “Mine?” I barely got out.
“You have a great job,” Fern said. “You have two wonderful children, you have a nice normal husband who supports you in your endeavors. She used to list the qualities,” Fern said. “But the last one, and the one that meant the most to her, was that you know who you are. Norah never knew who she was,” she said. “She had a messed-up family, I’ll tell you.”
I thought I was going to cry. My behavior in the Gaheimer House had been so cool, so uncaring, and she had been standing in the presence of a person she admired so much.
I suddenly felt the need to get out of there quickly. “Well, thank you for your time, Fern.”
Fern didn’t want to let me go, now that she had me in her house. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you, I really have to get going. I’ve got somebody that I need to see.”
“You know, I talked to her that morning.”
I stopped in my tracks just before the door. Slowly, I turned to face her. “What?” The hair raised on the back of my neck and my eyes watered. “You talked to her on Friday morning? The morning she died?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought she didn’t call in sick or anything.”
“She didn’t call the shop, she called me here at my house. I was off that day.”
“What time?”
“About nine-thirty. She called to tell me to remember to bring the paperback novels on Saturday. We shared books. I’d buy five or six books a week, and then I’d let her read them, then the next week she’d buy them and let me read them. But she let me keep all of the books. She wouldn’t take them.”
“Did you notice anything different?”
“No. Things were like they always were. You know, the teakettle was whistling, the dog was yappin’. Life was the same.”
We shared a silent moment and then she finally added, “You think if she had known it was her last hours, she would have done anything different?”
I couldn’t answer that, so I only shook my head.
“Well, I really must go, Ms. Kennard.”
“Fern,” she said. “Call me Fern.”
“You come to the museum opening, you hear? I’ll be looking for you?”
“Okay, I will.”
I was thoroughly and completely stunned by the time I made it to my car and was on the highway. Did Sheriff Brooke know that Fern had spoken to Norah that morning? Did it really make any difference to his case? It might narrow down the times more. It could make a difference in somebody’s alibi.
* * *
Rita answered the door almost before I had rung the doorbell. Miss Perfect didn’t look the least bit disheveled or upset. I wondered if she slept in complete makeup and ironed clothes.
“Torie, I’m glad you came,” she said.
I couldn’t help but think that she would change her mind by the time I left. I was holding a folder in my left hand, which she kept looking at nervously. I could see behind her facade, and suddenly she didn’t seem so perfect to me anymore.
I handed her the folder. “It’s Norah’s family tree,” I said. “There is probably a lot more that could be done on it, but I did five generations back. There are copies of original documents as well. I also wrote a summary for each ancestor, stating their religion, occupation, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Torie. I wish Mom could see it,” she said. “Let’s go out on the patio for some lemonade.”
I followed her onto the patio and she motioned for me to have a seat. The patio furniture most likely cost more than my living-room furniture. The backyard was large and landscaped. Little pebbles and fountains decorated almost every square foot. How odd that there were no yard toys: swing set, sandbox, pool. Rita had small children. Where were their monuments?
“I want to be straight with you, Rita,” I said. I watched her place a perfectly poised smile on her face. “I spoke with your father the other day.”
“How dare you!” she snapped.
Oooh, a reaction. Why did Rita and Jeff react in the exact same way? Why didn’t they want me to speak with their father?
“You have no right—”
I put a hand up to calm her. “He invited me,” I explained.
“So what did he tell you?” she asked. She poured the lemonade with a slight tremor in her hands. “That my mother was frigid? That she was obsessed with her father?”
Before I could answer, she was bent down right in my face, just inches away. “He is a bastard!” she yelled, at which point I jumped. With one sentence, she was coming apart at the seams. “He probably also told you that I lost my virginity at thirteen. That I was a drug addict and an alcoholic. That I’d do anything to get my mother’s attention. Mom was a selfish woman that couldn’t take her eyes off of Jeff. Jeff was her whole world and nobody else existed!” she said. She gulped her lemonade. It was the most unfeminine thing that I had ever seen her do.
“And Jeff. He was to blame, really. If Mom was not totally absorbed in him one hundred percent of the time, he’d go nuts. Temper tantrums, like a two-year-old,” she said, waving her arms wildly, pacing back and forth. “Once, he smashed all of the windows on the ground level of our house because Mom wanted to go to the theater instead of his basketball game. Pretty soon she just gave him what he wanted. It was easier. And that’s when I ceased to exist.”
I hadn’t even asked a question yet.
“Actually, he didn’t say a word about any of it. He said you were jealous of anything that walked, and that Jeff was obsessive, but he never mentioned virginity, drugs, smashed windows, none of it.”
It was ruthless, I know. And I loved every minute of it. I wanted to see her sweat. I wanted to see her dawning realization of the fact she’d just told on herself.
“Instead, he mentioned that he was a pervert and that he wanted Sheriff Brooke’s investigation to look elsewhere. He said he didn’t kill your mother and that an investigation might bring to light his less than normal sex life.”
“Oh my God,” she said, sitting down on the patio chair. “The bastard shifted the suspicion to Jeff and me.”
“Well, it was done very subtly
.” I’m sure that didn’t make her feel any better, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“I can tell you right now,” she said, “I didn’t kill Mother. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
I never wanted to slap somebody so badly in all of my life. She couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Not that she loved her mother too much to kill her.
“Besides, I have an alibi. I was at the gym. Twenty people saw me. There’s no way Jeff killed her. Number one, he was at the vet, and besides, he was obsessed with her. He adored her. When she said she was going to try and find her father, he went berserk. That’d be more attention given to somebody other than him. He couldn’t have done it.”
“Then who?” I asked.
“I’d say her father or my father.”
“What would make you say her father? Eugene Counts?” Rita was unaware that Eugene was dead and Michael Ortlander had replaced him. I did put it in my report, along with Eugene’s real date of death, but she hadn’t looked at that yet.
“Jeff told me the other day that Mom had put an ad in the paper, and that her father had answered it. Maybe he had something to hide. All I know is that things were fine until then.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” I asked angrily.
“Because I’d just assumed that she died before she got the chance to meet with him. Now I wonder.”
I was in no better shape than I had been before. And I still had no clue as to how to approach the topic of John Murphy. What was it Rita had said earlier? She would do anything to get her mother’s attention. Was that it? She’d even go so far as to have an affair with her mother’s boyfriend.
Out with the poison, Mom had said. Just do it, get it over with.
I still don’t know what kept her from hitting me. And I still have no idea how I got the nerve up, but I straightened my shoulders and just blurted it out. “You were sleeping with John Murphy, weren’t you?”
Her first reaction was the one that let me know I had hit home. The reaction that played across her face and her entire body lasted a split second before she had the chance to recover from the shock. It told the truth.
Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret Page 16
