Blood Relations (5 page)

Right now, I had a reporter who had to be part bloodhound sitting at my desk, wanting to know every little detail about
The Phantom.
It was funny how he was dressed in a silk suit but his cameraman was wearing a Rams sweatshirt, black sweatpants, and no socks on his feet, which were stuffed into sneakers that looked two sizes too small. I got the feeling that Bradley Chapel would not be caught dead in black sweatpants and a sweatshirt, even if he were the one behind the camera. And he would never go without socks unless he was wearing sandals. But then, I could never imagine Bradley Chapel in sandals, either. The camera was on, by the way, but Mr. Chapel assured me that not every word or every minute of film would make it in his “exclusive” spot on the evening news. Still, it was weird being conscious of every single word I said.

“Basically, the steamer was built around 1900, at the cost of ten thousand dollars,” I said. “It was about one hundred and forty-three feet by thirty-one. Its engines were about ten inches in diameter of cylinders by four feet stroke. She ran the Arkansas–St. Louis–Hannibal route, carrying passengers, bumper crop, that sort of thing.”

“I thought you said on Wednesday that the ship had just come from Memphis.”

I just stared at him. “Yes, Tennessee is across from Arkansas.”

“So, was this anything like the boat in
Showboat?
” he asked.

“Well, it certainly had the paddle wheel in the back, the two stacks, and the white trellis-looking things—called bull rails, by the way—but I don't think she was nearly as fancy as the one in that movie. She had two decks.” I handed him a photograph of the boat taken in about 1905. “And then, of course, the crew could walk along the top, so that was sort of a third deck, but the top didn't have the railings.”

“How fast could she go?”

“Hmm, that I wouldn't know.”

“What kind of crew would she have had?”

“Well, a captain or a pilot, obviously. Leadman—”

“A who?”

“Leadman. He would use a sounding pole to judge the depth of the water, and then he'd call it back to the pilothouse. Water depth was very important. If they ran into shallow water, not only could they ground their boat, get it hung up on something, but it could do serious damage. Then who knows how long they would have been stranded with a cargo that might have been time-sensitive.”

“Oh,” Mr. Chapel said.

He had probably never been on a boat in his life.

“Who else?”

“Roustabouts, or deckhands. They worked under the mate on the deck of a packet. Um … a wood hawk.”

“Who?”

“He would handle the woodlots on the boats.”

“Okay,” he said, more in a tone that said he wished he hadn't asked than one that showed interest. “What was she carrying when she sank?”

I supposed he didn't want to hear about the cooks and the other assorted crew. So, I responded to his last question, rather than add the rest of the crew. “Research indicates that this was mostly a passenger run,” I said.

I handed him another photograph. “That is a picture taken the next afternoon.”

“Gruesome,” he commented.

Indeed it was. I had handed him a photograph of the seven recovered bodies lying in a neat row, covered by blankets. One was the length of a child. The sepia tone of the photograph made everything look dirty. But it had been winter, just like now, when the boat had sunk. So everything was sort of gray and desolate-looking to begin with. Standing to the left of the bodies was a man in a black derby. He sported a handlebar mustache. The chain of his pocket watch was clearly visible on his vest pocket. Sylvia had told me that the man was the town doctor, Doc Hallam. To the right of the row of bodies was a little kid, staring back at the camera, a look of shock frozen across his face. I wasn't sure if it was shock from the spectacle of death that lay at his feet or from the snap of the camera. Maybe it was a little of both. The river ran behind them, the top of one of
The Phantom
's stacks barely visible, poking out of the water.

“What time did the boat go down?”

“Well, the time it actually sank in the cove was about four in the afternoon. So that picture was taken almost twenty-four hours later.” I handed him another photograph. “This one was taken about an hour after it sank. It was winter, so the sun was almost gone, but somebody thought to snap this picture. You can see the boat is slightly on its side. The top deck, pilothouse, and one stack can still be seen.”

He studied the photograph for a moment. “I don't understand. If the pilothouse can still be seen, how come the captain didn't make it?”

I didn't follow.

“I mean, it's obvious. If you could still see the pilothouse in this picture, he should have had plenty of time to get off the boat before it sank.”

“I'm not sure,” I said, shrugging.

“Are any of these people still alive?” he asked. He gestured to the people standing all along the riverbank. Some were townsfolk who had come to stare in disbelief or to help rescue people. Some of the figures were people saved from the boat. One woman sat on a rock, soaking wet, staring past the camera with an expression that suggested she was reliving in her head what had happened.

“I doubt it,” I said, knowing full well that one of the boys standing on a rock, looking out at the river, was Harlan Schwartz.

“Anything else of importance you can tell me?”

I got the sneaking suspicion that he had already heard about the diamond myth. Just by the way he kept pressing me, as if I should know more than I was telling him. Either that or he was just very intuitive and I was being unfair.

“Mmm, no, not really. I didn't have time to research all of the articles and interviews at the time to find out what the theories on the cause of the accident were. I mean, eyewitnesses said that she had flanked going upstream, then she was out of sight a few minutes, and then they saw her dead in the water, floating back down toward the cove, where she finally sank.”

“‘Flanked'?”

“It means that the pilot had driven the boat hard, forcefully, toward the opposite bank, then set it back just as forcefully at the last minute and let the current swing the bow around.”

“Oh.”

No conspiracy in flanking, Mr. Chapel.

“When was it known to the New Kassel residents that the Huntleigh heiress had been on board
The Phantom?
” he asked.

“As far as I've been able to tell, nobody knew she was on board the boat until a few days later.”

“How did they discover that?” Mr. Chapel asked.

“Well, I'm not sure. But some of her items washed ashore. I know that much. As to how they actually knew she was on board, I guess they must have looked at the manifest. I'll have to check on that.”

“Did her parents ever come to New Kassel?”

“Not that I know of,” I said. “But I think they sent a private investigator. I really am not certain of these things. I'll have to do some checking.”

“Could I study your interviews and the articles that you mentioned?”

“It's all public domain, Mr. Chapel. You can find most of it at the library.” If you know what you're looking for, I thought.

“If you don't mind, Kyle and I”—he pointed to his cameraman—“are going to stick around awhile.”

“‘Awhile'?” I asked.

“Couple days. We're going to stay at the … Murdoch Inn,” he said, flipping through a brochure on my desk. “Just in case the sheriff might decide to do a little river diving.”

It's a free country. And why on earth would he need my permission to stay? “Sure,” I said. But deep down, I was already dreading the outcome of a news anchor staying at the very inn owned by the town's biggest gossip.

“Kyle,” Chapel said. “Get some close-up shots of these pictures.”

I watched as Kyle went about shooting video footage of the photographs that I had handed Mr. Chapel. Then Kyle gave them back to me with a nod of his head.

“So, how long have you worked for the Historical Society?” Mr. Chapel asked me.

“Too long,” I said, and smiled. “No, I love my job. Um … about ten years, I suppose.”

“Have you lived in town long?”

“Yes,” I said.

“In your job as archivist, have you ever come across any old mysteries about this town? Anything juicy?”

If only he knew.

“Maybe,” I said, and tried to stifle a laugh.

He smiled at me, showing perfectly capped teeth. “Where's a good place to eat in town?”

“If you're after something easy like pizza and beer, Velasco's is the best. Or the Smells Good deli. The Old Mill Stream offers a little finer dining. Fraulein Krista's Speishaus is my favorite place in town. Um … Pierre's is the place to go for breakfast. It's a bakery, wonderful teas and coffee,” I said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Chapel said.

“What about Burger King?” Kyle asked.

“If you want fast food, you need to head west out of town on the New Kassel Outer Road until you hit a place called Wisteria. The main road into town is fast-food heaven,” I said.

“Forgive my cameramen,” Chapel said. “He's so uncouth.”

“It's all right,” I said. “I hope you gentlemen have a nice stay.”

“I'm sure we will.”

As soon as Bradley Chapel and his cameraman left the Gaheimer House, I jogged through the kitchen, heading toward the back door. Sylvia just happened to be standing in the kitchen, of course, making herself a cup of black cherry berry tea. “Where are you going?” she asked without looking up.

“Eleanore's,” I said.

“You're as nosy as she is,” said Sylvia.

“No, I'm not. Be back in time for the next tour.”

If Sylvia had anything else to say, I didn't hear it. All I heard was her spoon clanking against the cup as I stepped out the back door and began running through the alleys and yards to get to the Murdoch Inn before Mr. Chapel did.

Six

The Murdoch Inn sits on a slight hill at the south end of River Point Road, which means there is a gorgeous view of the Mississippi River from the front porch. Built in the 1880s by Alexander Queen, the house sports delicate latticework all along the porch and the trim of the house. It is white, with one turret, two stories, and a renovated attic, which has the cutest rooms in the inn.

Shivering from the cold, I looked around as I stepped up on the porch, hoping to be invisible to anybody who might happen to be looking. Entering the inn, I tiptoed past the front room, where tea was being served on silver serving sets to the guests lounging in the living room. However irritating Eleanore may be and however poorly she may dress herself, she displayed pretty good taste when it came to decorating the inn. The walls are a swirly cream and all the woodwork stark white. I peeked around the door to her office, where the patrons would check in, and I gave a sigh of relief that I had beaten Bradley Chapel here. I was half-convinced that he had gone on for lunch.

“Eleanore,” I said.

“Torie! Come in, come in. Oh, it's just so exciting. I think I might bust a button from all the excitement,” she said.

Eleanore is, at best, loud, obnoxious, and colorful, to the point of making one's eyes hurt. At worst, she is vainglorious and hasty, and quite often when trying to impress somebody with her vocabulary, she speaks like a thesaurus on acid. All of her jewelry is plastic or metal and comes in colors not found in nature. Today, she wore bright yellow banana earrings and a necklace of big orange beads. She is also top-heavy and has an extra chin, and I do worry sometimes that she is going to drop dead of a heart attack someday. Well, I worry about her health when I'm not wishing one of the plagues of Egypt would set upon her.

“What?” I asked. “What's all the excitement?”

“The inn is full, thanks to that stupid shipwreck eighty years ago. I've got that crew from the college here, and Mr. Chapel from Channel 6 news called and made a reservation. Oh, you simply must find old shipwrecks more often!”

I stepped all the way into the room and shut the door behind me. “I'll try,” I said, a little off balance. I sat down in the chair.

“What is it?” she asked. “Aren't you excited?”

“I'm certainly glad your business is doing well, Eleanore, but I have a problem.”

“What?” she asked.

“Has Mr. Chapel checked in yet?”

“No.”

“When he does, you must not mention the diamond lore to him.”

“Why not?”

“Because the sheriff doesn't want people to come down here looking for nonexisting diamonds, that's why. He wants to maintain some sort of control,” I said.

“Oh pooh,” she said. She waved a hand at me, a big ring on her hand catching the light as she did. “If Sheriff Brooke thinks he has control over things in New Kassel, he's as deranged as the mayor.”

“It's important,” I said. “Somebody may go looking for the so-called diamonds on board and get hurt in the process. Then we could get sued, people would stop coming, and your inn would be empty.”

“Oh dear,” she said, clearly not having thought to translate the danger to something that would affect her. Now that I'd helped her to see what damage could be done to her business, I had her undivided attention. “But the guys from the college…”

“What guys from the college?” I asked, and then remembered. “Oh, the guys from the college.”

“Mr. Lahrs is upstairs unpacking as we speak. He's going diving later. He already knows about the diamonds,” she said just as Mr. Chapel opened the door.

“What diamonds?” Bradley Chapel asked.

“The diamonds that were on board
The Phantom
when it sank,” Eleanore said, wide-eyed. Well, so much for her keeping her mouth shut. If I had a dollar for every time I've been right about something, I'd have a mountain of money.