Death of a Wolfman (A Lily Gayle Lambert Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

Scanning the pages, I read about church picnics in the town square and squabbles in saloons that didn’t exist anymore. Visits from out-of-town family members were featured, including the length of stay. All of this kept me entertained but didn’t contribute to my search. Surely such a prominent family would have been covered regularly. But it seemed they’d been as remote from the locals back then as they were now.

At last I found an article covering an 1854 Fourth of July celebration during which Aidan Mitchell, the head of the family at that time, had contributed money for a spectacular fireworks display. I rubbed my hands together. Now I was getting somewhere. I read descriptions of everyone who was there along with the Mitchell family. One sentence stood out. Aidan Mitchell, his wife, their daughter and two of the three Mitchell boys were in attendance. The reporter went on to say that the middle son was ill but was watching the fireworks from the family mansion outside town, along with his nanny. I sighed. Interesting, but not something helpful to my search. Maybe I should switch to the census records.

Just as I was writing down all the Mitchell family members’ names from the article, I felt someone standing behind me. That short-hairs-on-the-back-of-the-neck-standing-up feeling. I’d been so absorbed in my task I’d failed to notice someone walking up to me. Hating that I’d been caught so unaware, I turned.

Alexander Mitchell stood behind me, a frown on his face as his eyes went from the article on the microfilm screen to the pad of paper where I’d written down his ancestors’ names.

“I realize what you’re looking at are public records, but I would ask that you not choose my family as a research project.”

After the initial shock of seeing him in the library, I answered. “This isn’t just idle curiosity on my part.” His eyebrows rose. “Your sister asked me to do a full family history project. I’m working for her.”

His hand smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “It’s Ms. Lambert, right?”

I nodded. How would he know who I was? I tried not to squirm in my seat as his ice-blue eyes, the exact same color as his sisters’, continued to look me over.

“Ms. Lambert, I ask that you abandon this project. My father is very ill. Near death, and I don’t want him upset by hearing anything about this. He wouldn’t like it and I want his last days to be as worry-free as possible.”

Lord. You could sure tell the Mitchells went off to the North for their schooling. LizBeth had no trace of a Southern accent, but her brother sounded like a New York banker. Or at least how I supposed a New York banker would sound, considering my only avenue of comparison was what I’d heard on TV. And heaven knew some of those actors had the most hideous fake Southern accents I’d ever heard.

“Mr. Mitchell, I’m sorry to hear about your daddy. I’d heard he wasn’t well but not that he was dying.”

“Well, he is, and if he hears about what you’re doing here, it will upset him very much.”

I frowned. “But your sister was the one who asked me to do this. I’m not trying to cause any trouble here.”

Alexander reached into the breast pocket of his sport jacket, pulling out a checkbook. “How much is my sister paying you to do this research? I’ll give you double the amount to stop doing it.”

I stood, only to find myself staring at the middle button of the man’s shirt. Taking one step back, I glared into his face. “I don’t know who you think you’re speaking to here, but I don’t work that way.” I grabbed up my notebook, placed a hand on his chest and pushed him aside. “I was hired by your sister. If you have a problem, you work it out with her. I don’t take bribes.”

Stalking toward the double wooden doors leading to the street, I heard the basilisk screech behind me. “Lily Gayle Lambert! You get yourself right on back over to that machine, remove the tape and put it back properly in its box.”

I slowed, turning to look back at the microfilm machine. Miss Jamerson was right. I should treat that microfilm properly, but Alexander Mitchell still stood where I’d left him, now grinning at my being reprimanded by the librarian. Damn if I’d give him anything else to be amused about by going back over there and meekly removing the microfilm. I turned back toward the doors and exited at a near run into the beautiful autumn afternoon.

Stuffing my notebook into the battered canvas backpack I sometimes used as a purse, I slung it over the handlebars of my bike and set off at a brisk pace for home. I’d just do my census research online from there.

Until LizBeth Mitchell told me different, I was still on this case.

Flying along the sidewalk, wheels racing, my mind still seething from the encounter at the library, I forgot to take the back way home to avoid having to pass Miss Edna’s house. And sure enough, the old woman sat right out there on her porch. She hollered for me to stop, but in my current mood, I couldn’t stomach whatever she might have on her complaint list. I’d come back tomorrow with the homemade lemon Bundt cake I knew Miss Edna loved and apologize for my rude behavior this afternoon.

The word
homemade
took my thoughts right back to the autopsy room that morning and the wolf man. Homemade bullets. Maybe once I’d finished with my online search of the Mitchells for the evening I’d look up how to make bullets. Now, that might prove to be some helpful information.

***

I fired up my computer in the room I’d converted from a spare bedroom upstairs. While I waited for my account to load the genealogy search site I wanted, I headed back downstairs to make a cup of my favorite peach tea. I hated the slow load connection, but being halfway between two major cities and not close enough to either one, it was my only option. True high speed just hadn’t made it to Barkley County yet. I supposed I should be glad we had satellite TV.

Though considering I rarely found anything I wanted to watch on any of the channels I received, it wasn’t such a big deal after all. Well, to be honest, I did enjoy the classic movie channels, A&E and the History channel, so my money wasn’t totally wasted on paying fees.

My teapot finally sang and I poured the steaming water over my tea bag, adding three packets of Splenda. Once I got back upstairs I found the search site available.

Keying in the name Aidan Mitchell, his estimated date of birth and Barkley County, Mississippi, I watched to see what bits of information might be just hanging around out there in cyberspace, waiting for me to find them.

Choosing to look first at the census record, I clicked on that option, then began the wait for the pdf file to download to my screen. As I waited, I stared out the window.

In the town square, bronze and yellow mums around the monument to the war veterans lent the only splashes of color outside the clothing of the townspeople wandering along the streets, stopping to chat now and then as they went about their business. Soon winter would set in and even the mums would be gone. And no one would be wandering leisurely down the streets. They’d be hurrying from one warm place to another, rushing to get away from the cold.

Letting my eyes drift, I caught a movement behind Dixie’s shop. From my second-floor aerie, I could see over the top of the buildings to the alley that ran behind the stretch of stores on the east side of the square. I nearly spit a mouthful of tea onto my keyboard as I realized it was Dixie behind the building, sneaking a cigarette.

Why, that
hussy
. She’d claimed she quit a year ago. I continued to watch as Dixie glanced quickly up and down the alley, checking to make sure no one could see her. From this distance, the lines in Dixie’s face weren’t visible, and because she’d managed to keep her high-school figure she looked just like the teenager she’d once been. I grinned to myself. Oh, yes, I’d be having some fun with ol’ Dixie in the very near future about this incident.

As I continued to watch, Dixie dropped the butt on the ground, stepped on it, then picked it up and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. Then she took something out of her pocket and put it in her mouth. I would bet everything I owned it was a breath mint or stick of gum.

Looking back at my computer screen, I saw that the census record from 1850 had appeared. Lord help me, those old census takers sure had some crappy handwriting. All those curlicues, on top of not being terribly literate, made for some hard going sometimes with those old records. I clicked on the option to increase the size of the page in order to help me decipher the script. As soon as it was as large as I could make it, I scanned the page. Yep. There it was, Aidan Mitchell.

Scrolling across, I saw that he was born in Virginia, just as LizBeth had thought.
Or known already
, whispered a suspicious voice in my head. I ignored it. I was surprised to see that Aidan’s wife had been born in Tennessee. He must have settled somewhere else before coming here and met her at that time.

I’d have to find him in 1840, then try to trace his steps to Barkley County in 1850 to figure out where he’d gotten married. But for now, I scanned the names of his children. I saw two sons and a daughter. Odd. Grabbing my backpack from the floor where I’d tossed it coming into the room, I pulled out my notebook. Riffling through the pages, I found my notes on the Fourth of July celebration. Yes. It definitely said three sons and a daughter.

Hmm. Could the census taker have missed one child? Census records were notorious for errors. Had the son been sent to school up North at the time the census was taken? But if that were the case, wouldn’t the other boys have been away too? If so, none of them would have been recorded as members of the family because the records showed only those in residence on the date the census was actually taken.

I clicked back to the original information page on Aidan Mitchell and chose the 1860 census to see if a third son appeared on those pages. Maybe he’d been born after 1850 and had been a toddler at the time of the celebration article in the newspaper. Drumming the fingers of one hand, I finished my now-cold tea as I waited for the page to download.

When the information appeared on the screen, I enlarged it and scrolled. Finding the Mitchell family, I still found only two sons and one daughter. That just didn’t make any sense.

Unless…it wasn’t uncommon for children to get sick and die in the wilderness areas of that time. A son could have been born after 1850 and died before 1860. How sad. I’d have to go to the courthouse to see if I could dig up any information on a death record. That was something I wouldn’t find online. But I did notice on the 1860 census that Aidan Mitchell’s parents were listed as having been born in Ireland. I added the new information to the notes I’d already taken.

Sadness still filled me at the thought of the child who had probably died so young. I sent out a few inquiries on the boards to see if anyone had any information on Aidan Mitchell and logged out. I’d had enough of the Mitchells for one night. Going to my home page, I typed in a search for homemade bullets.

Thousands of pages came back. Good grief! I’d had no idea there would be so much stuff out there. Where should I start? Some of the page listings looked as if they might belong to some type of antigovernment protest groups. I definitely didn’t want to look at those. No telling who I’d start getting emails from if I chose to click on sites like those. With a sigh, I clicked on the most interesting-looking history-of-bullet-making site. Better safe than sorry, and maybe this site would link me to some other legitimate sites I could use to learn what I needed to know.

Hours later, I stretched, trying to work a cramp out of my back from sitting in one position for so long. Eyes gritty, I yawned, shutting down the computer. A glance at the pendulum clock on the opposite wall startled me. Ten o’clock. I’d been up here all evening. No wonder I could hardly move. Turning off the lamp on the desk, I exited the room and went downstairs.

Flipping on the porch light, checking out the night before I turned in, I nearly screamed before I realized Elliot’s furry face was the one glaring at me through the window.

Turning the bolt, I opened the door. Elliot entered, still glaring balefully at me. “Well, why didn’t you come in the cat door in the kitchen if you wanted in so bad?”

Elliot’s reply was to run to the kitchen, where his kibble bowl resided, his already substantial belly swinging from side to side, his tail an exclamation point of cat anger.

I followed him, watching in puzzlement as he crunched his food as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Elliot was a big fatty, but he never devoured his food like that. Could something be wrong with the cat door?

Kneeling on the floor by the back door, I pushed against the cat door. It gave, but very little. Mystified, I opened the door. My scream ripped apart the night loud enough to wake the dead, but the backyard and woods behind the house were silent. Hands to my mouth, I backed away from the still-open door. With a shaking hand, I picked up the phone and called Ben on his cell.

When he answered, I sobbed, “Please come, Ben. I need you.”

Grabbing Elliot away from his kibble, I retreated toward the living room, still staring at what was attached to the outside of the cat door. I heard tires burning rubber before the phone disconnected.

Within five minutes Ben’s car screeched into my drive. I was still clutching a squirming Elliot to my chest as I ran down the porch steps straight into his arms.

He held me in a strong grip for a moment before pushing me away to look past me into the house, arms loose around my waist. “What happened?”