A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) (19 page)

“Sylvia?”

It was a loveless home. A man with three children that were not his own, his wife playing him for a fool. A man immersing himself into his work, this town. He was all but dead inside, and then a breath of fresh air entered his life. Sylvia Pershing.

I have to admit, it was hard for me to imagine Sylvia as a breath of anything, except maybe a dragon. Hermann had seen her differently. Probably because she
was
different then. She’d been young and beautiful, and in love with a man that she could not have. Not in the legal sense anyway. I say that because I think Hermann was hers in every other sense. Mind, body, and soul. And what a man he must have been. I’d often thought of him as the Ernest Hemingway type in the recent months since I’d discovered what had transpired between him and Sylvia. She was but a girl. He was close to eighty.

I turned left when I reached the upstairs, following the mauve Victorian floor runner. At the end of the hall was Hermann’s den. This room represented Hermann in every way. An oval photograph of him hung above the large mahogany desk. His pipe holder sat on the left-hand shelf, with his four or five pipes still resting in it.

And there sat Sylvia Pershing: quiet, submersed, withdrawn.

“Sylvia?”

“Yes,” she said, without turning.

“It’s me, Torie.”

“I’m well aware of who you are. And your name is Victory. I can never understand why you butcher that name. Don’t you know what it means?” she asked.

Her back was to me. Ancient, gnarled fingers played with the tobacco tin that sat next to the pipe holder on the desk, as if she gleaned some comfort from touching things that he once used.

“Yes, Sylvia. I’m aware of what my name means.” My name has a dual meaning. I was named after a ghost, a ghost that haunted an old mill, down in Pine Branch. Victory LeBreau was her name. But my mother also named me Victory because I was a victory. She was told that she could never have children. And was informed by several cruel family members that even if she could have children, no normal man would want a cripple in that way. She proved them wrong. I was her Victory.

“Sylvia, I’ve come to return Hermann’s diary,” I said.

Her hand stopped its loving caress of the tobacco tin for a split second. She resumed as abruptly as she had stopped.

“I told you to keep it.”

“I’ve read it,” I said. I waited for her to say something. I would welcome her hateful prattle right about now. “I think you should have it back.”

I wanted to walk around and face her, but didn’t know if I should. This was Sylvia’s territory. She was my elder, not to mention my boss. Finally, I could stand it no more and walked around her chair and looked down at her. Her gray eyes did not look at me. They seemed to look straight through my stomach and out the window behind me. The braids that wound around her head looked loose and unkempt. She was tired. No, she was depressed.

I handed the diary out to her. “Sylvia. I’ve read it. He did not blame you for Sophie’s death. She did not commit suicide. She knew about you, and she didn’t care. She had her own lover and had been with him for years. None of her children were Hermann’s and he knew it.”

Sylvia looked up at me as this new knowledge registered with her.

“That’s right,” I said as I knelt down in front of her chair. “Hermann could not have children.”

Her age-spotted hand went to her mouth, and tears welled in her eyes. They threatened to spill forth, but she kept them in check.

“He loved you more than life itself. Please read it. Find out in his voice just what you meant to him,” I said and pressed the diary into her open hand. “I’ll take it back someday,” I said. “But this belongs to you until you depart this world.”

The tears finally spilled, leaving one long streak down each cheek. Then she sobbed. I leaned forward and hugged her, not knowing if I should. I tried to pull away, but Sylvia held me close. Finally, the shame, the fear, the doubt of seventy-five years came out with a force. She had faced her demon, the demon that raised its ugly head all of her life. It was out. And it wasn’t so scary after all.

Twenty-six

I sat at the kitchen table looking through some papers for the history of New Kassel that I was working on. My mother sat quietly at the other end of the table, crocheting or knitting, I always get the two confused. Suddenly I saw something on one of the pages. Laughter rolled out of me uncontrollably. I took a drink of Dr Pepper and, as a result of the laughter, it snarfed out my nose. My mother looked appropriately appalled at my table manners because, after all, she was the person who had taught them to me. One can never get it through one’s parents’ heads that we children learned everything correctly. We just choose to ignore it sometimes. But this incident was an accident. I wasn’t snarfing my soda because of bad manners. I snarfed my soda because of hysterical laughter.

“Would you mind telling me what is so funny?” Mother asked.

I would if I could get it out. I got up and walked into the living room, holding my stomach from my unexpected outburst of laughter. I sat down on my piano bench in the living room, sending whatever sheet music was sitting there onto the floor.

“Hee hee hee, whoo, whoo whoo.”

My mother followed me into the living room. “Have you suddenly lost your marbles?”

“Yes,” I managed. I slapped my knee. My side hurt and my nostrils seemed to have a life of their own.

“There is nothing more irritating than another person laughing hysterically when you have no idea what they are laughing about!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said. “Just let me breathe.”

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. She would have tapped her foot if she could have.

“Okay,” I said. “I think I’m all right now. Guess what I discovered?”

“What?”

“The treasure … ‘Queens own home,’” I said. “Remember we couldn’t figure out what ‘Queens own home’ meant in the riddle that you decoded?”

“Yes?”

“In 1922, Alexander and Alma Queen … get it? Queen … Alexander Queen lived at number 4 River Point Road.”

I love watching the dawn of realization when it hits people.

“Number 4 River Point Road is now the location of the Murdoch Inn,” I said. “The treasure is hidden under the Murdoch Inn! If only Eleanore knew!” I said. Laughter bubbled again and I soon found myself in a worse state of fits than before. “And you wanna know what’s worse?” I asked. “Andrew Wheaton and Lanny Lockheart have been staying there all of this time! The treasure was right under their butts the whole time. Hee hee hee. Life is good.”

My mother failed to catch the humor in this at first. Then the thought of it sort of grew on her, and soon she was laughing as hard as I was.

“It must be in a trunk or something, because that’s what the key must be for.”

“What key?” she asked as she wiped her eyes.

“The key that I found with … the … documents … Hey, you know what? I just thought. I need to head over to Santa Lucia.”

“Victory! What key? Are you saying that you have a key that you didn’t tell anybody about?”

“Well, if nobody knew about it, then it wasn’t any threat, now was it?”

“Oy vey,” she said. We’re not Jewish, but that has been a favorite phrase of hers since I was a child.

“Gotta go, Mom. I’ll be home in time to fix dinner.”

When in hot water, get out of the kettle.

I pulled into the driveway of Santa Lucia and parked by the rectory about three minutes later. Something had bugged me the other day when I visited Sister Lucy. When I asked her how Marie’s friends from out of town had learned of her death, Sister said nothing. She did not say she did not know. She just didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what it meant, but it bugged me.

Sister Margaret Elizabeth led me to Sister Lucy’s room. “Wait here,” she said. “She’ll just be a second.”

“Thank you,” I said to the very young nun. She looked about twenty-two.

I promised myself that I would not snoop around in this nun’s room. Even I have my limits. It killed me, but I still had my limits. I didn’t see anything wrong with just walking around and looking at what was out, though.

The photograph on the desk was horizontal, and of three little girls in what looked like their slips standing waist deep in a creek or lake. They had their arms around each other, smiling as only the young can smile. The smile said, “We are immortal, we will never change, never grow old.” We all have the luxury of unconsciously believing that at some point in our lives.

“Mrs. O’Shea,” Sister Lucy said from behind me. I jumped as if I were doing something wrong, and for once I wasn’t.

“Oh, hello,” I said. “You scared the daylights out of me.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I don’t know, actually. I was wondering, the other day when I asked you how Marie’s friends had been notified of her death, you didn’t answer.”

“She had several friends in town. They were all going to a business meeting or something like it. Plus there was Mr. Dooley. Maybe one of those individuals called her other friends,” she said.

“Why didn’t anybody call any of her family? I’m sure she had cousins and such,” I said as I watched her face grow from tolerant to impatient. “I mean, I know she had two sisters.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the nun said.

But she would know. She was her friend. A very close friend. I glanced over at the photograph on her desk. “Who are they?” I asked.

“What? What does that photograph have to do with anything?”

“Who are the girls in the photo?”

“Me and some childhood friends,” she said. “I don’t see what it matters.”

I hate it when my brain decides to clear a passage that I can suddenly see through, after it’s been foggy. I feel stupid when that happens. She seemed unnaturally nervous over the photograph, which only added to my epiphany. Well, that and the fact that in the distance of the photograph was a castle. How many castles are there in America?

“You’re lying,” I said to her. “That is you and Marie and—tell me if I’m wrong—Yvonne? Marie was your sister, wasn’t she?”

Sister Lucy, aside from swallowing heavily, showed no outward appearance that I was right or wrong. But the swallow told me enough. I was right, or I was damned close.

“I think you should leave, Mrs. O’Shea. I am going to report your behavior to Father Bingham,” she said.

“Fine. You do that,” I said. “Tell me, Sister, why the secrecy? So Marie was your sister, big deal. Or is this some more of that cloak-and-dagger garbage? You know, the Merovee Knights and all that?”

“Get out,” she said.

I walked to the door, taking a quick inventory of everything in the room, hoping that I would see something, anything, that could connect Marie to Sister Lucy. “It would make sense,” I said. “Marie didn’t let in a stranger the night she was killed, and she didn’t let in a man. She let in a woman. That would more likely be the case,” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sister Lucy said. “And if you continue to sling accusations my way, you had better have an awfully good attorney backing you up.”

“I wasn’t accusing. I simply said that it would make sense that a woman living alone would not let in a man at that time of the night, but that she would let in a woman. A woman she trusted. Her sister,” I said. “That’s all. I didn’t say it was you. I didn’t even say that I believed that’s what happened. I just said it would make sense.”

“I think you should go now,” Sister Lucy said.

I looked around the room, but aside from the photograph, everything was religious in nature. Paintings of Christ and the Virgin, the wood and ivory crucifix, a print of the Angel Gabriel. There was nothing else to learn here, unless Sister Lucy decided to spill her guts, which I didn’t expect anytime soon.

“Forgive me, Sister, if I’m wrong,” I said. “But if I’m right?”

“I suspect that you suffer from an overactive imagination. One that is given to great supposition,” she declared.

“Whatever you say, Dorothee. That is you, right? You would be Dorothee L. Jaillard. Let me guess, the ‘L’ stands for Lucy? Or Lucia?” I asked.

“Get out!” she said, quite angrily.

Anger is the quickest way to know when you’re right, or at least hitting a nerve. My husband gets more angry at me when I’m right than when I’m wrong.

“You know the records will be easy enough to check,” I said.

She said nothing to that. It was clear that I had her.

“Good day, Sister.”

Twenty-seven

Just outside of Fraulein Krista’s Speisehaus, Tobias Thorley stood in his blue and gold knicker outfit playing the accordion. I winked at him as I walked by, and he winked back.

It was gorgeous in New Kassel. Once the calendar turns to October, Missouri comes alive. Brilliant blue skies so full of oxygen that you nearly get woozy just breathing it, and splashes of red and gold along the countryside are Nature’s way of saying thank you. It says thank you for putting up with three feet of snow in March, seventy-degree weather in January, sixteen below on Easter Sunday, and one-hundred-ten-degree weather for the entire month of August. Missouri’s weather is just that unpredictable, and October seems to be the only month that can be predicted with any accuracy.

The aroma of apple turnovers wafted by my particularly delicate nose as I crossed the street. Halfway across, the aroma turned to bratwurst. The combination is indescribable.

Tourists milled the street with their mouths full, stomachs fuller, and eyes the size of saucers. Children with brightly colored balloons tied to their wrists looked ready to fall over from exhaustion as the parents kept dragging them from shop to shop.

“Look, there’s the lady who gave the tour yesterday,” I heard one child say as he pointed to me. I waved back from the sidewalk in front of the Gaheimer House.

I entered the house to find Sheriff Brooke waiting in the parlor. He was in uniform, with his hat in one hand.

“Glad you could make it,” I said. “Where’s Sylvia and Wilma?”

“Wilma’s turning bratwurst over at the Smells Good, and Sylvia is helping Helen out at the candy shop.”