A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) (10 page)

She left the room and I was alone in her den. It was the first time I’d ever been alone in the room and had a chance to look at anything in detail. There was a small painting of Jesus on the cross, looking up into the heavens. The painting was located next to the window, in one of the few places with any wall space left in the den.

There were tons of books on the shelves that went from floor to ceiling, even at the top. Old photographs in pewter frames sat on a few of the shelves. There was a beautiful crucifix that was done in cherry wood with Christ carved out of ivory. Her worktable was long and had huge clawed feet. These details made the room awe-inspiring.

Camille came back in the room with her usual grace. “Here you go,” she said and handed me the cake, wrapped and ready to go. “I’ll see you tomorrow at three,” she said, pleased.

“Yes. Tomorrow at three.”

I walked outside to find Rudy snoozing with the radio blaring. It was some talk show. Somebody’s ex-mother-in-law married their father and they were trying to figure out the relationship. It would have bored me to sleep, too.

“Rudy,” I said. “Wake up.”

“Hmm? I’m awake.”

Why do men always do that?

We pulled away from the curb as a chill ran down my arms. I could not figure out why somebody would dig up a grave looking for documents that could not have any bearing on political situations of today. There was always the possibility that the documents themselves were worth lots of money. But it was obvious that all the documents were not written by the same author or even in the same century. I was totally and thoroughly perplexed.

Eleven

“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” I said as I entered the Gaheimer House the next morning. “Rudy and I ran out of time yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she answered.

Wilma came out of the kitchen with a cup of hot chocolate for me. She locked eyes with me and I knew something was wrong. Her usually cheerful disposition was subdued.

Sylvia went to the phone table in the hall next to the soda machine and picked up a small black leather book. She handed it to me and turned away. She gave no explanation as to what it was or what I was supposed to do with it.

I looked to Wilma and she shook her head.

“Sylvia,” I began. “What is this?”

“It’s Hermann’s diary. I want you to have it.”

Now I understood what was bothering Wilma. It was completely unlike Sylvia to let anything out of her sight that belonged to Hermann Gaheimer. Why would she suddenly hand this over to me?

“Why?”

“Oh, for once, Victory, don’t overanalyze everything, just take the book.”

“I don’t want it. You give it to somebody else,” I said. Sylvia would never give it to anybody else. She had spent sixty-odd years building a veritable shrine in the memory of Hermann Gaheimer and the only person besides herself that she trusted anything with was me. I knew she would not give it to anybody else.

“I’ve never even read it,” she announced.

“Then why do you want me to have it?” I asked.

“Because I can’t throw it away, but I don’t want to read it either. I’m afraid of what it might say.”

In other words she was afraid that Hermann may have blamed her for the death of Sophie as much as she had all of these years. And if he had blamed her in some way, it would destroy Sylvia’s carefully crafted fantasy.

I considered being stubborn and refusing to take the diary anyway. But Sylvia had just admitted to being afraid of something, and I couldn’t remember that ever happening. Wilma stood there twisting her handkerchief into knots. She was clearly concerned over my next sentence.

“All right. Fine. I accept your gift, Sylvia. Thank you very much,” I said.

“How’s your mother?” Wilma asked me. She was obviously anxious to change the subject.

“She’s fine, Wilma. Just fine.” Sylvia stood with her back to me looking out of the kitchen window. I had no idea if she was actually looking at anything or not. I imagined that what she saw at that moment was the New Kassel of days gone by.

“Thank you, Wilma, for the hot chocolate. I have to get over to the Murdoch Inn.” I handed her the mug back and left quietly.

*   *   *

It would be a trick to get in the Murdoch Inn and speak to the three suspects that were staying there without confronting Eleanore. I was saving that mess for a later date. I did not want to deal with Eleanore now.

I sat in the north hallway at the top step and hoped that Eleanore would not walk by. I did hope, however, that one of the people that I saw at Marie’s funeral would. I know what you’re thinking. I could be here all day. Well, I was prepared for that and had brought
The Name of the Rose
along for company.

Two hours later I realized that I was paying entirely too much attention to the book I was reading instead of who was walking by. I put the book down, rubbed the back of my neck, and yawned. I leaned all the way backward to let the kinks out of my back and saw a man walking toward me. Of course he was upside down to me, so I wasn’t sure who it was.

“Locked out of your room?” he asked cheerfully as he walked by.

He was definitely one of the people at Marie’s funeral.

“Oh, excuse me,” I said. I stood up and held out my right hand, minus the book. “I’m Torie O’Shea,” I said. “I’m the historian here in town, and I was wondering if I could have a word with you?”

“I’m from out of town,” he said as he shook my hand. He was about six feet, but weighed nearly three hundred pounds. He had a thick beard with a generous amount of white in it. His mustache was much darker, with virtually no gray or white at all. The hair on his head was thin. It didn’t seem fair that his face would sport so much hair and his head would not. He wore suspenders over his white shirt to hold up his dark slacks, which only pronounced his thick middle all the more.

“Yes, I know. It’s about Marie Dijon,” I said.

His eyes were small, so small that I wasn’t even sure what color they were and I was looking right at them. “What do you want?” he said, losing his friendly manner.

“Let’s go somewhere and talk. I don’t want to stand in the hallway.”

“All right. But make it snappy. I have an appointment in an hour,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said as we went down the steps. “I’ve gotten your name confused with one of the other guests. What was your name again?”

“Lanny. Lanny Lockheart,” he said.

I took him out the side entrance because I didn’t want to run the risk of being seen by Eleanore. We walked across the grounds and headed for the wharf. We were in plain view of any number of buildings and people so I wasn’t worried about my safety. I basically wanted to make sure that nobody was close enough to hear what we discussed.

“Marie gave me her family charts,” I said to him.

“Yes?”

“Along with pages and pages of documentation.”

“What sort of documentation?” he asked.

“Birth certificates, histories written by scholars on her family, that sort of thing. You know she had quite an impressive pedigree. She was the closest thing to royalty I think this town has ever had.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with any of that. I am a professor at Loyola, but this is not my cup of tea,” he said.

“A professor of what?”

“I have my doctorate in theology and history.”

“Really? Well, how did you know Marie?” I asked.

“She was a student of mine. I hadn’t been a teacher for very long. I was barely eight years older than her. We had a wonderful friendship,” he said.

“Oh, I’m so glad that you got to see her before she died.”

“I did not,” he said. “I never got the chance to. I came into town and we were supposed to meet the next day, but she never showed.”

“Did you call the police or anything? I mean, she was expecting you, wasn’t she? I would hardly think that she would stand up a lifelong acquaintance coming all the way from Chicago,” I said.

“Yes, I did. They told me she had to be missing for a certain amount of time before they would do anything. They also said that she often left town without telling people.”

That much was true. Marie did take long trips, short trips, trips of all kinds. She was always packing her car with her luggage. I could see why the sheriff’s department would think that.

“Where were you Tuesday night and Wednesday morning?” I asked.

“I was with a colleague of mine. Andrew Wheaton.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Am I being investigated?” he asked. “Because it feels like it.” He was starting to get angry.

“No. I didn’t mean to give that impression. I was just curious. You know, the sheriff thinks she may have been murdered.”

Mr. Lockheart looked over his shoulder toward the inn very nervously. “What do you mean?”

“Somebody ransacked her grave,” I said. “They are beginning to suspect foul play. I just thought maybe you might have an idea of why somebody would want to kill her.” I had no idea if he was buying anything that I said. But he was definitely restless all of a sudden.

“My God,” he said. “How horrible.”

I wasn’t sure if his words stemmed from fear or loathing. But he was certainly disturbed by the news of grave robbers.

“She’s been buried at least a week,” I said. “Why are you still in town?” It had just occurred to me that at least three people who were at Marie’s funeral and outsiders to New Kassel were still in town and at the Murdoch Inn. Why were they sticking around?

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, “but there is a convention going on at Washington University. Andrew and I decided to stay and attend it.”

There were tons of hotels closer to St. Louis than this. But his answer was still believable. “I see,” was all I said.

“Look, Ms. O’Shea, I really have to be going. I don’t want to miss my appointment. I’m sorry I could not help you,” he said and walked back toward the inn. He did not wait for me to say thank you or even farewell. He just left.

He was suddenly a very irritated man.

NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

T
HE
N
EWS
Y
OU
M
IGHT
M
ISS

by Eleanore Murdoch

Rudy O’Shea has found a lost wiener dog and wants the owner to come forth. Of course, he stressed the point that if the owner didn’t want to come forth, he and his family would be just as happy to keep it. My sources tell me that they’ve already named it and bought it a doghouse, although they rarely let him out.

Speaking of the O’Sheas, Torie suffered a nasty bump in a recent fender bender. Hope you feel better, Torie.

Elmer Kolbe wants to remind everybody about the new city ordinances this year when we have our big bonfire. You can’t burn anything except wood!

Oh, and Father Bingham has put up a reward for any information on that terrible incident that happened in his cemetery. Grave robbers! In New Kassel! The reward is from the sisters’ quilting fund. $897.26.

Until next time.

Eleanore

Twelve

“Mommy,” Mary said.

“What, dear?”

“Can I wear a dress tomorrow?” she asked. She stood at the top of the stairs waiting to come into my office at home. She walked in and over to my desk where I was sitting. She held her hands behind her back and I was fairly certain that she was hiding something back there.

“What’cha got behind your back?” I asked.

She grinned mischievously and produced her new pair of black patent leather dress shoes. She said nothing. She only looked around the room trying to be nonchalant.

“You want to wear a dress tomorrow so that you can wear your new shoes. Is that it?”

She shook her head yes, her round cheeks pink with the blessed health that many of us have in America. Her face had the look of good nutrition, good care, and lots of love.

“Do you think you can ride the rides and have fun in those shoes?” I asked her.

Again she shook her head yes, her green eyes hopeful.

“Okay,” I said, “you can wear them.”

“Thanks,” she said and hugged my neck. The shoes clanked the side of my head in the process, but I didn’t mind. She headed toward the steps and sat down at the top to put on her dress shoes. She was in her
Little Mermaid
nightgown, but she didn’t care. She wanted to wear her new shoes. She was only four, and already she loved shoes. Especially new ones that were black and shiny.

As she went down the steps, Sheriff Brooke came up. He had on his fishing cap, a black T-shirt that advertised some kind of motor oil, and, of course, blue jeans. His scruffy boots scraped across my hardwood floor as he came into my office.

“Hello,” he said.

“Are you off today?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. He walked around my office, stopping every now and then to study something. He fingered a copy of
Under the Lilacs
by Louisa May Alcott. It had been my Grandma Keith’s. “I think I’m gonna go fishin’. I thought maybe Rudy would like to go, but Jalena said he’s in Minneapolis,” he said.

“Yeah. Some plumbing fixture convention,” I said. “He should be home late tonight. Maybe he’ll go with you tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow’s the first day of the Octoberfest.”

“Oh, I forgot.” How could I forget that? I’d been organizing judges for the bake-off, the quilt show, and the Best Pumpkin Recipe contest, not to mention all the bands.

He passed by a painting of a ship. The ship was nearly all black, a silhouette against a mauve sunset. “Your mother paint that?” he asked me.

“Yes, she did.”

“I keep telling her she’s good,” he said.

Then he came to a picture of Christ. It was decoupaged onto a piece of wood. Jesus was all illuminated in golden hues as he reached out with his right hand as if to bless you. His gown was of rich burgundy and green. The decoupage had started to crack, giving it an ancient appearance.

“My father made that for his mother,” I said to Sheriff Brooke. “In 1953. He was thirteen years old.”

As he looked around the office, I did, too. Most of the things hanging or sitting out were not necessarily things that I would have bought for myself, but they were given to me. They represented something. I wondered if all people were like me.