Blood Relations (6 page)

Bradley Chapel leveled his eyes to mine. Without him having said a word, I understood exactly what he was thinking. Surely the town archivist and historian would know a thing or two about diamonds in the wreckage of a steamer. “Mr. Chapel, nobody knows for sure if there were diamonds on board that ship,” I said.

“Go on,” he said, folding his arms.

“There's a diamond mine in Arkansas,” I said. “Supposedly one of the passengers was carrying a case of uncut diamonds from the mine to St. Louis when the steamer went down. But nothing was ever recovered, not so much as even one sparkly looking rock.”

“Why did you keep this from me?” he asked.

“You have to understand, Mr. Chapel. New Kassel relies on its tourism to survive. Sure, a bunch of people coming to our town to go diamond hunting would be good for business at first, but if somebody were to get hurt, it could do way more damage to us than good,” I said. “The sheriff and I were just trying to keep the hysteria to a minimum.”

“How much were the diamonds worth?”

See? Already the dollar signs were rolling around in his eyes.

“We have no way of knowing. First of all, they were uncut diamonds—straight from the mine. Second, we don't know if they were in a matchbox, a bread box, or a cedar chest, so we have no way of even knowing how many there were. None of the survivors had actually seen the diamonds; they'd just heard that they were on board,” I said.

“And you're convinced they didn't exist?”

“What I'm saying is, nothing has ever washed ashore to indicate that there was anything on that boat other than people and some corn.”

“But the box could have been sealed. That would explain why nothing washed ashore. They could still be sealed in there.”

“Could have been,” I said. “But wood rots eventually. So they would have to have been in a metal box.”

“Nobody's ever thought to go down there and look?”

“Well, I don't know. Seems to me there was one guy who dived down there in the sixties, and he said there was nothing but rotted wood,” I said. “And I think Sylvia said that several people dived down in the thirties.”

“Did they know about the diamonds?” Mr. Chapel asked. “I mean, was that what those divers were looking for?”

“I'm sure they'd heard the rumors, the same as all of us have,” I said.

He just shook his head. “Those diamonds are down there,” he said. Then he looked at Eleanore. “I'm Bradley Chapel, by the way. I'm here to check in for my cameraman and me.”

That was it. He'd dismissed me just like that. I'd failed on my mission. Now all I could do was watch the way the pieces would fall and hope that I could pick them all up and keep New Kassel safe. I turned to go.

“Mrs. O'Shea, those diamonds are there. And I'm going to find them.”

Right. I couldn't see Mr. Chapel donning a wet suit and slugging through three feet of Mississippi mud for all the diamonds in the world. He was the type of man who probably wore silk paisley pajamas.

“Well, good luck,” I said.

“You'll need it,” Eleanore added. “Mr. Lahrs is here from the college, and he's the only one authorized to do any diving anywhere near that wreck. You'll get arrested if Sheriff Brooke finds you down there.”

Mr. Chapel didn't look very happy about that. And I felt very juvenile at the moment. “Yeah,” I said. It was the adult equivalent of sticking my tongue out at him.

Seven

I stood on the porch of the Murdoch Inn, looking out over the Mississippi and at Illinois on the far bank. I often just stare out at the river. I have found that it's impossible to live this close to water and not be seduced by it. We have tourists who come into town just to park their cars and look out at the Mississippi for half an hour. There's something soothing about moving water; the ocean has the same affect on me. I sort of mellow out and get lost in thought, quite often wondering, What kind of secrets do you hold, Old Man River?

Many times, I have thought of the Native Americans who lived here before the Europeans managed to find their way west. What had the river meant to their lives? Granted, it is the giver of life. But it also holds the power of mass destruction. I have lived through one too many floods to think that the river is always generous and giving. It can also be the taker with a vengeance. And yet sometimes the river doesn't take at all. Sometimes it is as if man makes sacrifices to it. Like the idiots who decide to swim across it on a bet or to impress some girl. I've seen with my own eyes a person getting sucked under, never to be seen again. One year at the Fourth of July celebration in St. Louis, I saw some jerk riding a speedboat up the river, and it was almost as if an unseen arm just reached up and flipped that boat right over. It sank within seven seconds. And of course, on one sad day a few years ago, the performer Jeff Buckley fell victim to the river down in Memphis. That's the worst thing: The river
seems
placid. But go three feet out, and you're in more danger than you could possibly imagine.

What had happened to
The Phantom?
As a kid, I had wondered about the diamonds. And about what had happened to the very young and beautiful Jessica Huntleigh. But now, looking out upon the mighty Mississippi, I couldn't help but wonder what had caused the steamer to sink all those years ago. Was she overloaded? Was she running loaded flat? I'd seen pictures of steamers so full of cargo or people that they ran flush with the water. If the captain had flanked her, driven her a little too hard, and she were flush, it wouldn't have taken much for the water to overtake the boat.

“Mrs. O'Shea?” a voice asked.

I turned away from the river and saw a young man standing on the porch next to me. He was a good-looking chap. Probably about twenty-eight, fairly tall, with green eyes and a military-looking haircut. “I'm Jacob Lahrs,” he said, extending a hand.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Lahrs,” I said, and shook his hand. No surprise that he had an extremely firm handshake. I had taken his phone-call several years back when he had inquired about water levels and the wreckage. I wondered, momentarily, who had contacted him. “I'm sorry, but I forgot to call you.”

“That's all right,” he said. “I happened to be down here last week with my mother. It was her birthday, and we came down here to shop and have dinner. When I saw how low the river was, I had a feeling that it would be getting low enough for the wreckage to be visible.”

“So,” I began. “Why didn't you just dive down there before now?”

“The river is so polluted, you can't see a foot in front of your face,” he said. “You also can't see when you're getting tangled up in anything. And believe me, there're tons of things to get tangled up in. You ever been out on the Mississippi?”

I shook my head.

“I got snagged on a '57 Chevy once. There are cars out there, refrigerators, you name it. I'd just as soon wait until it's shallower.”

“And what exactly are you diving for?” I asked, as if I didn't already know. But he surprised me with his answer.

“I want to try to determine what caused the steamer to sink.”

“Oh,” I said.

“No, I'm not after any diamonds,” he said. “I don't believe there were any on board anyway.”

Finally, somebody with common sense. “Why's that?”

“The entire diamond myth came from one source only. A woman who survived the wreck,” he said.

Professor Lahrs had a military build, too. He wore an olive green sweater under one of those winter windbreakers. Large, broad shoulders made one think that he worked out on a regular basis, and he just held himself like a lot of military people do—shoulders back, chin up. He was teaching at one of the local colleges, if I remembered correctly. Biology, I think.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I thought there were many accounts of people saying—”

“People
saying
they
heard
about the diamonds. But only one woman said she actually
saw
diamonds. I just don't believe her,” he said. “She was a woman of a questionable reputation, if ya know what I mean.”

Prostitute. Showgirl. Something along those lines.

“I see,” I said. “You sure know a lot about the steamer.”

“I've read everything your Historical Society has on it. Plus, I've read the material at the library in Wisteria, and even some of the holdings up in St. Louis. It did make the St. Louis papers at the time, and even Chicago and Memphis mentioned it,” he said.

If there were uncut diamonds from a diamond mine in Arkansas on board, I would think that the Arkansas papers might have carried the news, as well. And the New York papers probably carried the news, too, what with the Huntleigh heiress being from New York.

“Did the Chicago and Memphis papers mention diamonds?”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe they called it an ‘ungrounded and unsubstantiated claim.'”

“Well,” I said, “I wish you the best of luck in finding out what happened. The town would be grateful to you if we finally knew what happened to the steamer. Maybe we could even put up a plaque at the site.”

Professor Lahrs's eyes lighted up. “Oh, would you?”

“I don't see why not. Sylvia's really good about spending money on that type of thing,” I said. “We just never considered it before because we really didn't know what had happened. So, if you find out why the steamer sank, then we'll have a plaque made for it. Because when the river gets back to its normal level, you won't be able to see the wreckage anymore. It'd be nice if we had some sort of reminder as to what lies beneath the water.”

“Oh, that would be so cool,” he said.

Just then, two men came out of the Murdoch Inn and joined us on the porch. “Oh, this is my assistant, Jeremiah Ketchum,” Professor Lahrs said.

“Mr. Ketchum,” I said, and shook his hand. Jeremiah Ketchum was about forty, I'd say. He had smooth skin and blond hair, and I only guessed his age at about forty because he held himself like somebody who had been around the block a few times.

“And Danny Jones,” the professor said. “A very promising student of mine.”

Danny Jones, however, was young. Very young. I'd say about nineteen. His eyes were brown, and his hair was done in one of those two-tone styles that all the young boys were wearing. Although short and dark on the sides, the top was a little longer and bleached blond. He looked as though maybe somewhere way back on his family tree, there had been an island ancestor. Based on his hairdo and his baggy pants, my daughter would be in a serious swoon if she saw him.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “All of you.”

“We'll try to do the least amount of damage to your town as possible,” Professor Lahrs said.

I gave a small laugh, wondering how he had read my mind. “Well, good luck, again.”

“Oh, I've got more than luck on my side,” Professor Lahrs said.

“Oh?” I asked.

Danny Jones smiled. “His great-grandfather was the captain of
The Phantom,
” he said. “He thinks he's got help from his long-dead ancestor or some such supernatural crap.”

I'm not sure why that particular tidbit of news bothered me, but it did. Maybe it was because Jacob Lahrs's great-grandfather had succumbed to a pretty gruesome death, and if it were me, I wouldn't have welcomed help from beyond the grave.

“The river is in my blood,” Jacob Lahrs said, looking out at the Mississippi.

Maybe it's more like your blood is in the river, I thought.

Eight

Fraulein Krista's is the coolest place in the world. It's where I retreat when I want to get away from everything. Not that there are a great many things I want or need to get away from, but it seems to be the one place, other than the riverbank, where I can collect my thoughts and just veg. Part of it is because the owner watches out for me when I come in and tries to make sure that nobody bothers me.

On Saturday, I sat in my favorite booth, the one in the corner of the restaurant, which has a good view of the street and the tourists outside. And even though I could see what was going on outside, nobody could really see me in the restaurant, unless they were sitting right across from me, because the tall wood walls of the booth hid me from the other patrons.

Everything in Krista's is dark and rugged. Exposed beams on the ceilings, and dark wood, almost black, all around the booths and halfway up the walls. At the end of the bar, there is a stuffed grizzly bear that we'd nicknamed Sylvia. I'm not really into stuffed things, so I just tell myself that it is a pretend stuffed bear. But the best part about the restaurant is all of the waiters and waitresses hustling about in their green velvet knickers and dresses, serving beer in steins and food on pewter dishes.

“What's it gonna be, Torie?”

I looked up to see Krista herself, who always seems to know when I come in and who waits on me personally. She is tall and has blond hair, blue eyes, dimples. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that she is one of Tolkien's elves. She holds herself as one would expect a tall beautiful blonde to hold herself—like the world is hers for the taking.

“I'll have one of those things I can't pronounce, with the crumbly stuff on top, blackberry tea, and … I don't know.… Surprise me.”

She raised her eyebrows and sat down across from me in the booth. “Feeling adventurous today,” she said. “What's up?”

“I'm on my lunch break. Saturdays are always pretty busy over at the Gaheimer House.”

She gave me one of those looks that said, Okay, whatever. Be in denial. That soon faded and was replaced with a golden smile and then an expression of concern. “Again, what's up?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“How's the slugger?”

“Meaning Rachel?” I asked, glaring at her. “She's fine.”