A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) (18 page)

“How does Yvonne fit in?” I asked. I didn’t want him to get too carried away with the hidden agenda of the Knights. I didn’t want to witness any secret handshake and all that.

“She is a member as well.”

“Well, I think she just may be Marie’s murderer,” I said. I turned to leave, got my hand on the door, and stopped. “Have you ever heard of Ransford Dooley?” I asked.

It had occurred to me that Ransford might have access to some of his real grandfather’s papers. Maybe he figured out what was going on. Maybe he and Marie were in cahoots together to get the treasure. Then decided to take it all for himself. Or Marie decided not to share it.

Treasure. That was pure nonsense. There was no real treasure. That sort of thing was fairy-tale garbage. I didn’t really believe that Henri de Lorraine was the man in the iron mask, either.

Andrew shook his head in the negative. He did not know Ransford Dooley.

“Well, at your next meeting,” I began, “you can tell everybody to hang it up, because Yvonne was found with the documents in her car. The documents are now evidence in a murder investigation. Nobody will ever see them again.”

He didn’t look too happy with me when I told him that. As a matter of fact he looked like he’d swallowed a bug. I turned and opened the door.

“By the way, I don’t believe
your
motives in this are innocent, either. If you truly believed that the treasure was to be held for the true heir, you wouldn’t have your sticky fingers in the middle of it. You’re just as greedy as all the rest, so don’t play the honorable knight with me.”

Twenty-three

It was nearly midnight and we were engaged in a moonlit hayride. The silver light from the full moon cast a celestial glow on all of us in the wagon. Rudy sat next to me, the girls in front of us at our feet. They don’t normally stay up this late, but the midnight hayrides that go with the Octoberfest were one of the year’s few exceptions.

Sheriff Brooke was in the process of loading my mother on board. He reached down and put one hand under her legs and the other behind her back and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He sat her on a lump of hay and then folded her chair and set it aside. Then he climbed up with us.

My father would lift my mother whenever we would go places, too. He did that when we went to the Grand Canyon. My mother nearly died of vertigo. It was not a fun vacation.

My father would carry her even now, if they were still married. But I had to be honest, I couldn’t imagine my father ever going on a hayride. At midnight, no less.

Mary yawned and leaned her head back on Rudy’s leg.

“Ready?” Elmer asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Elmer gave the reins of the horse a snap and we were off. We went through town at a fantastically slow pace, listening to the horses’ shoes clop on the blacktop. The midnight hayrides were something that the town did for tourists during the Octoberfest. It was three dollars a wagonload.

“It’s your turn tomorrow night, Rudy,” Elmer said over his shoulder.

“I know,” he said.

“Daddy?” asked Rachel. “Are you driving the wagon tomorrow night?”

“One of them.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Sure,” he said.

Sheriff Brooke leaned forward. “Torie, what’re your thoughts on Yvonne?”

“Don’t know.”

“Do you really believe all of that garbage about the Knights Templar and a treasure?” he asked.

“Everything that Andrew said was based in truth. There were Knights Templars. There was a man in the iron mask. Henri de Lorraine was the heir to Charles. There was a priest named Sauniere that found something at a church in Rennes-le-Château. Many think it was a treasure. Marie’s family is connected to all of it. I believe all of it. I just don’t believe that it could happen in New Kassel.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess if it were true, then the safe little town that I know and love will seem—I don’t know—tainted.”

“Could you guys stop talking shop?” Rudy asked.

“Is there anything to link Yvonne to Marie’s house? Like fibers?” I asked.

“There is no physical evidence,” he said.

We were silent as Elmer turned down the street that would take us through the park in town. The chill bit at my face and made me shiver.

“I’m glad we all wore flannel,” Mom said.

The girls climbed up on the hay next to Rudy and me, and watched the street ahead of them. The harvest moon was so brilliant, it was as if we were riding under streetlights. I saw the smile on Mary’s face and the anticipation in Rachel’s eyes. The smell of wood burning filled the night air, making me forget about summer and anticipate the coming winter—which, once it got here, I’d say that I couldn’t believe I’d ever wished for.

“What about Dooley?” I asked.

“Tons of physical evidence,” Sheriff Brooke said. “But you’d expect to find hairs and fibers from him. He was a friend of hers and visited often. He also claims that he is the grandson of Hermann Gaheimer and that he never heard of anyone named Levaldieu.”

“Either Elizabeth Gaheimer never told her children the truth or Dooley’s lying.”

“Can’t prove it.”

“Can’t prove much of anything in this case,” I mumbled.

I turned with Rachel to see just where the horse was headed. The smell of hay was starting to irritate my sinuses, but what didn’t? I was going to have to see an allergist soon.

“Ooo,” Mary said and pointed to the horse. “That horse is poopin’.”

Rachel laughed. Rudy tried hard not to. Mother covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head. Children are so honest. Not just honest. No-holds-barred-I’m-telling-you-exactly-what-I-think type of honesty.

“That’s nice, Mary. Try to use a different word next time.”

“The one Grandpa uses?” Rachel asked.

“No! I mean, no, dear. Not the one Grandpa uses.”

I looked at Rudy and he was smiling. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “My dad never says things like that.”

We passed by the Santa Lucia Church, the graveyard looking particularly festive. It was October and somehow graveyards just take on a different look. I thought about Marie. I was sorry that she had died. I was sorry anytime anybody died. But I couldn’t help but feel anger. I was angry that a person’s greed could lead them down the wrong paths. Suffice it to say, if it weren’t for the promise of millions, Marie would be alive. Whether or not the treasure was real, the Merovee Knights believed it was real. It got her killed, and it nearly got Camille killed.

“What if the person that killed Marie is none of the above suspects? What if it’s not Yvonne, Dooley, Lanny, or Andrew? What if it’s somebody we haven’t seen yet?”

“Would you please stop talking about this stuff?” Rudy asked again. “Just for one night.”

I saw the rectory and remembered that there were a few names of people on the register that we had not found yet. Could it be one of them? I thought about the fact that Sister Lucy was in possession of the registry, and it reminded me that Sister Lucy was one of the few friends that Marie had in town. I wondered if maybe she could tell me something. Like friends of Marie’s that we didn’t know about.

“Did you know,” Rudy began, “that the Santa Lucia Church is named after Saint Lucy?”

“Who is Saint Lucy?” Rachel asked.

“She loved God very much and was proud of her virtue.”

“What’s verr chew?” Rachel asked carefully.

“Her … innocence,” he said. “Anyway, this man came along and completely fell in love with her. He said that one look into her eyes, made him want to … want to … be with her for the rest of his life. His passion consumed him and he couldn’t contain himself.”

“What happened?” Rachel asked.

“She gouged her eyes out and served them to him on a silver platter.”

“Rudy!”

“Ooo, Dad,” Rachel said.

“All for the love of God and in the name of virtue.”

“I think I’d rather not have verr chew,” Rachel said.

Out of the mouths of babes.

Twenty-four

Sister Lucy sat perfectly poised in her black habit. A silver crucifix hung around her neck, and she played with the plain gold band she wore that represented her marriage to Christ. I’d seen her a few times without her habit and knew that she had reddish hair. Eyebrows and eyelashes the same shade as her hair added the only color on her makeup-free face. She had dark brown eyes and an overly large bottom lip.

“It was good of you to see me,” I said to her.

“That’s all right,” she answered. She was in her mid-forties, maybe older, but she had the vibrance of youth.

“It just occurred to me that your name, Lucy, is the same as the church. Santa Lucia.”

“Yes. But I had this name long before I’d ever heard of Santa Lucia Church.”

“I was wondering if I could see the register from Marie’s funeral again. I hate to bother you with something like that, but it’s terribly important.”

“Certainly,” she said.

She got up and walked to a plain desk situated in the corner. There wasn’t much in the room. A crucifix on the wall, one on a shelf, and a dresser. Her bed had no headboard but was graced with a blue and white checked quilt. There were a few photos on the dresser with a pink scarf. The photo on her desk was in a silver frame and was of three small children.

She reached in the top drawer and pulled out the register. She handed it to me and sat down.

“I don’t see any names in here other than the ones I saw the first time,” I said, and so turned to the rest of those names. “Tell me, Sister, do you know who Paul Garland is?”

“He used to be a priest.”

“Used to be?”

“Yes. He fell in love with the night-cleaning lady at his church and got married. I think Marie knew him from the town she lived in before this.”

“Where was that?”

“I think Chicago.”

“And Sally Reuben? Who is she?”

“A student. Back from Marie’s teaching days.”

“I wonder how they knew that she died?” I asked.

Sister Lucy said nothing.

“How long did you know her?” I asked.

“Just since she moved here. About two years,” she answered.

“When did you see her last?”

“The Monday before she died. We drove into Wisteria to buy her some shoes. Said she couldn’t buy a decent pair of shoes in New Kassel.”

“I don’t suppose that you have any idea who would have reason to kill her, do you?” I asked.

“Do you really think that she was murdered?”

“I don’t think she fell down the steps because she miscalculated the step, no. After what happened with my friend I’m beginning to think that it could have been an accident. The result of an argument. A court would be hard-pressed to prove that it was premeditated,” I said.

“I have no idea,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Well, if you think of somebody or something you can give Sheriff Brooke a call,” I said.

“I certainly will,” she said.

“I’m going to go now.”

I got up and headed for the door. “Oh, would you do me a huge favor?” I asked.

“What?”

“My grandmother, my dad’s mom, she was Catholic and I was wondering if you would…”

“Say a prayer for her?”

“Please? And light a candle?”

“You know, you could do it yourself,” she said.

“I know. But somehow I get the impression that God listens to you guys more than me.”

“That is positively not true,” she said. “If he hears a new voice speaking to him, it may perk him up.”

I wondered how she envisioned God when he was perked up. As my dad always says, “Two hundred and fifty million people, that’s two hundred and fifty million interpretations of God.” I agreed with that, because I couldn’t imagine God perked up and Sister Lucy could. It’s great to live in a free country.

“Well, just to be on the safe side?” I said.

“I will light a candle for your grandmother.”

“Thank you.”

Twenty-five

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Eleanore printed a retraction on the article that she wrote about Sylvia being responsible for the death of Sophie Gaheimer.”

My mother put down her fork and looked quite pleased. We were eating breakfast, and I had stalled long enough. I didn’t want to go to the Gaheimer House and work because I had the feeling that I would run into Sylvia. Since she had given me Hermann’s diary, I had scarcely seen her. We passed each other when I did the tours, but she was usually gone by the time I finished.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I had been trying to figure out how I was going to tell her that she wasn’t responsible for Sophie’s death without informing her that Hermann let the culprit go unchecked.

“I suppose you shook her up the other night,” Mom said.

I swirled my pancakes in the syrup and took a bite. “Yeah, and she even printed that it was her mistake, that she had copied the wrong information.”

“Goodness,” Mom said. “A trace of humanity.”

“Yeah. Wonder what she wants,” I said.

Fritz was seated next to my chair waiting for any scraps that might fall his way. I deliberately dropped a piece of bacon.

“Bacon isn’t good for dogs,” Mom said.

“It’s not good for people either, but we still eat it.”

“Nobody has claimed him,” she said. “Are you going to keep him?”

I looked down at his brown eyes and he cocked his head sideways. He knew when he was onstage. He knew that how adorable he looked at that moment could make his future. He gave a soft little bark, as if to say, You know you love me.

“It has been over a week,” I said. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

My mother gave a little huff, but it was forced. She had grown to like Fritz as much as we had. “You like him,” I said.

“I tolerate him,” she corrected.

“Yeah. Whatever.” I knew better. And what’s more, she knew that I knew better. “I’m going to have to tell Eleanore how much I appreciate this. Even though I don’t want to.”

“You better get to work,” Mom said.

*   *   *

I could not find Sylvia Pershing when I first entered the Gaheimer House. I walked through the foyer, the ballroom, my office, the kitchen. No Sylvia. Finally, I got a hunch as to where she would be. I walked up the stairs, the familiar creak of the ninth step going virtually unnoticed. I ran my finger along the oak banister, trying hard to imagine life in this house at the turn of the century.