Thicker than Water (16 page)

“Not your fault. In fact, you were quite the Sir Percival.”

“I…” he said. He scratched his head. “I heard you weren't going to take the job.”

“That's right.”

“Torie, you can't do that. Think about New Kassel.”

“What about it?”

“If you quit … I mean, our history is all that keeps this town afloat. Tourism is the only thing this town has.”

“The shops will be here, regardless.”

“Yes, but … you know as well as I do that it's the historical society that funds things like the Strawberry Festival,” he said.

I shrugged. “Didn't seem to bother anybody last night.”

“No, you're wrong. It bothered twenty-two out of the thirty-eight people who were here. That's how many voted for you,” he said.

“Oh, well, that only leaves sixteen disgruntled historical society members,” I said.

“I'd say half of those sixteen weren't thinking clearly. Half of them probably didn't even realize the connection between the historical society and our tourism,” he said.

“Oh, okay. They just hate me.”

“No, that's not what I meant. You know, Torie, what the power of a crowd can do,” he said. “They get caught up in what's going on and don't think clearly. I betcha half of them are ashamed this morning.”

“Whatever,” I said.

“Torie—”

“I really appreciate what you did for me last night,” I said. “And the fact that you're not stupid like so many other people are. You remained levelheaded. Really, I do. But I need time to think.”

“Okay, good,” he said. “I can live with that. Just don't make any rash decisions. And it's not just for the town, Torie. It's for Sylvia. And for you. I've watched you grow up. You're like a niece to me.”

“Thanks,” I said and gave him a big old hug.

“I gotta get going,” he said. “I'm getting a new Dalmatian today.”

“Oh, joy,” I said. Dalmatians are beautiful, but quite frankly, they have more energy than any living creature should be allowed to have.

He left, and I went into my office. I picked up the phone and called the St. Vincent de Paul Society to come and get some of the boxes that I had set aside for charity. They agreed to come by later in the week. Then I sat down and checked my e-mail.

I had received an answer from my contact in Iowa. It read:

Dear Torie,

I checked the white pages for Dubuque, and there are a few O'Shaughnessy families living in the area. However, there were none in the entire county prior to 1930. That's not to say there weren't any in the whole state. Now, I was wondering if you could return the favor and look something up for me? I'm looking for a Bridget Orr, who arrived in St. Louis about 1935 or 1940. Actually, I have a whole list of names, but I'll just do one at a time. If you could see if you come up with that name on any of the St. Louis records you have access to, I'd appreciate it. Feel free to ask me for any other favors.

Laura James

I typed a response, saying I'd be happy to check what I could for her. Downstairs in the basement, I actually had the “white pages” for the city of St. Louis for the years 1922 through 1929 and then again from 1937 to 1949. They had been a donation to the historical society a few years back. I could check those with no trouble, but I'd have to go down to the library to check for marriages and other records.

I glanced at my watch and wondered when I'd hear from Mike Walker. If I didn't hear something soon, I'd give him a call and check in.

Pulling the postcard out of my purse, I studied it a moment. Little Millie O'Shaughnessy must have been just passing through Iowa. On her way to where? And why did she feel the need to send Sylvia a postcard? It had to have been written by an adult, anyway, because Millie wouldn't have been old enough to write, much less write a sentence in that sort of neatly defined script.

Also, how did Sylvia end up with the other photograph of her? That wasn't a postcard, so Sylvia either had the picture mailed to her in an envelope or had taken the photograph herself. I set the second photograph of the girl, the one that indicated her identity, on my desk and began to study it.

In the photograph, Millie stood on a street corner, waving at the photographer, giving a shy smile. A woman dressed in a dark suit with a big hat was on the corner with her, turning and looking back over her shoulder. Clearly, she was an unexpected subject in the picture. By the look on her face, you could almost see her own embarrassment at being caught in the girl's photograph. The length of the woman's skirt indicated to me that the Roaring Twenties were over and the more conservative thirties had been ushered in. Or at the very least, the photograph had been taken somewhere between 1928 and 1932.

I took my magnifying glass and tried to see what was written on one of the windows on the street. VanDyke Printers. Above and behind the girl's head was a street sign. One street was Wayne Junction. I couldn't make out the cross street clearly, but what I could see was “wn Ave.”

I was fairly certain there was no street in St. Louis called Wayne Junction, but who knew what streets used to be called? Now all I had to do was find a city that had a street named Wayne Junction. Past or present.

I wasn't sure if I was encouraged by this or discouraged. At one time, I would probably have hung my head and cried. But not now. Not with the Internet. God bless the Internet.

Twenty

I yawned and stretched and immediately wished I hadn't. The bruised flesh rubbed across my rib cage and caused a very unpleasant sensation. I reached for the prescription-strength ibuprofen and the OxyContin and washed them down with Dr Pepper. My kidneys were going to crystallize.

Instead of searching for Wayne Junction, I began my search for Bridget Orr for my contact in Iowa. She had done me a favor; it was only fair that I return it. In fact, I did find a Bridget Orr listed in the 1937 phone directory. Whether it was the same Bridget Orr that Ms. James was looking for, I hadn't a clue. I would pass it on and see if she wanted me to back it up with anything else. I e-mailed Laura James and told her what I had found.

I glanced at my watch and realized why my stomach was grumbling. It was going on 6:00
P.M.
Still no word from Mike Walker. A small flower of anxiety bloomed in my chest as I picked up the phone and dialed his cell phone. I got his voice mail.

Then I heard it. Footfalls on the stairs. I was not about to let this prankster out of the house without learning his identity once and for all. I jumped up out of my chair and ran into the living room. “Stay right where you are!” I called out. You always wonder how people manage to die in bizarre ways. You know, the Darwin Awards. You hear them on the news. My favorite was the guy who tossed an electric cable into a lake to electrocute the fish and then walked into the lake to retrieve the fish without unplugging the current. Well, believe me, charging out of my office right out through the living room and sitting room and heading for the stairs was probably the stupidest thing a person could do. In fact, as I was rounding the corner, I flashed on my headline for the Darwin Award.

CRAZY GENEALOGIST RUNS HEADLONG INTO ASSAILANT, DIES OF CONCUSSION

But I couldn't help it. I was incensed. I was so angry at whoever was playing games that I let my stupidity get the better of me. I heard a door shut and something fall over. I took the stairs two at a time and only thought momentarily of how winded I was when I reached the top. Maybe I would die of a heart attack. Maybe I should start exercising. Especially if I was going to make a habit out of chasing ghosts up the stairs in the Gaheimer House.

When I reached the top of the stairs I noticed the door to Wilma's room was slightly cracked. It had been shut tight. I glanced around for something to use as a weapon. I had the prowler cornered; I needed to follow through. One of those brass coatracks stood in the corner. Yeah, that'd be great.

I picked it up. It weighed a ton. I could no more wield this than I could a tree trunk. While I was standing there in the hallway, I glanced at the phone and intercom system that hung on the wall. I picked up the phone, dialed 911, and told Deputy Newsome that I had the perp cornered and he should get somebody over here.

“You may as well come out!” I called to the unseen bad guy. “Police are coming. You're trapped.”

Of course, he didn't come out. I mean, that's like when the clerk at the post office asks you if you're mailing anything potentially hazardous, breakable, flammable, etc. Like, if you were mailing anthrax, you'd come out and say, “Oh, yeah, there's anthrax in there.” Still, I felt stupid standing there and not saying anything.

Where was Sylvia's baseball bat when I needed it? In fact, I hadn't seen it in days. Not since … the Strawberry Festival.

Colin must have been right down the street because he literally burst through the door, splitting the frame, with his gun drawn. “Torie, come down from there!” he shouted.

I raised my hands, as if I were the suspect, and passed him on the stairs as he was coming up. “He ran into Wilma's room.”

“Which one is that?”

“Oh, the second on the left.”

I heard him kick Wilma's door open, and I froze on the stairs. I listened. Nothing. A few moments went by, and then Colin came out of Wilma's room and looked down at me. “There's nobody in here.”

“What?” I said and ran back up to the room. “Did you check in the closet?”

“Of course I checked in the closet. I'm a cop.”

“Well, what about under the bed? Men don't think of that too often.”

“I checked under the bed, Torie.”

“The windows?”

“Shut. Locked from the inside.”

I stared in disbelief. “That is not possible!” I shrieked.

He shrugged. I went into the room and looked in all the places he'd said he'd looked, just because I didn't believe he'd actually done it. If he had done it, he would have found something. Somebody ran up those steps and into this room. He had to still be here.

Colin came in the room behind me.

“Did you check in the drawers?” I asked. He gave me an incredulous look. “Maybe he's small boned.”

“Or a contortionist?”

“Yeah, you never know,” I said, pulling out the drawers. No, no Harry Houdini inside. I sat down on the edge of Wilma's bed and put my head in my hands.

Colin sat down next to me. “Are you sure you heard a person? Maybe it's a squirrel on the roof.”

I glared at him.

“Old houses make weird noises,” he reminded me.

“There was somebody here. And people don't just walk through walls!”

“Maybe there's access to the attic in this room,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said.

Colin opened the closet and looked up at the ceiling. Nothing. No door to the attic. He shrugged. “I'm out of ideas.”

“Wait,” I said. “People don't walk through walls.”

“Right. Physics.”

I snapped my fingers. “But what if the walls move?”

“What?”

I ran to the closet. “Sylvia used to tell me all the time about how some of the older homes had secret rooms. You know, like for Indian attacks.”

“Indians? In Missouri?”

“Well, the Gaheimer House would have been built long after the Native American ‘threat' would have passed in this area. But some people, especially if they were wealthy or lived out in rural areas, would build a safe room.”

“You mean, like a panic room.”

“Yeah, only without Jodie Foster. Exactly. Sometimes wealthier people had these rooms just to keep their treasures in, so that if they were robbed by bandits or what have you, their real wealth would be safe.”

“Did you say bandits?” Colin said. “Do people really use that word?”

“Look,” I said and moved Wilma's clothes aside. “At one time New Kassel was a remote stop along the railroad between St. Louis and Memphis. I think there was this house, and the Queen house, which is now Eleanore's, and a few others. The railroad often brought some unsavory people with it.”

“You need a flashlight?” he asked and handed me his.

“Thanks.”

I ran the yellow beam of the flashlight along the wall of the closet. Nothing. Then I turned and moved the hanging clothes all back the other way and faced the north wall of the closet. There, as big as you please, was a panel.

“Colin,” I said, “I think I found our secret room.”

Colin leaned his head into the closet. “You're joking!”

“No,” I said.

“Don't touch that panel,” he said. “I'll have it dusted for prints.”

“Well, remove the panel, then,” I said. “Don't you have gloves or something?”

Colin took a pen from his pocket and popped one corner of the panel. Then he pulled out a handkerchief and slid it aside. I flashed the light into the dark space. A staircase led downward. “It's not a room at all,” I said. “It's a way out.”

Twenty-One

Wooden steps led down into a pit of total blackness. Colin and I said nothing for the longest time. We just stared down into the corridor and then at each other. “I really didn't expect to find anything,” I said. Only in the desperate recesses of my mind had I been holding out hope that I would find something behind these walls.

“Me neither,” Colin said, “but it makes sense. All the noises that you've heard, and Stephanie has heard, and then never being able to find anything. The perp was disappearing down these stairs. By the time you or the police got upstairs, there was nothing here.”

“A ghost,” I said.

“Like a ghost.”

“And Sylvia,” I said. “The person at the foot of her bed.”

“Poor woman.”

“But wait. If Sylvia knew there was a secret stairwell, then she would have known how her assailant got in, and she would have known how the person at the foot of her bed got in. What would have been the point in hiring a private investigator? She would have just called you and told you to come over and watch the panel in the closet.”