Blood Relations (8 page)

“No, 'fraid not.”

“How do you keep Rudy here? I mean, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, girl. You're just pushing him out the door to find love in another's arms. I bet you cook Hamburger Helper, too, don't you? No, don't answer that question. I don't want to know. No fresh garlic,” she said, still disbelieving.

I folded my arms and leaned up against the countertop. “I thought you always said the way to a man's heart was through his—”

“Mom!” a voice screeched from the kitchen door. It was my middle child. My wild child. The child with as much personality as an amusement park and as much energy as a roller coaster. “Matthew keeps hitting me with his T. rex, and I'm about tired of it.”

“Mary,” I said, “tell him you're not going to play with him anymore if he keeps hitting you.”

“I'm
not
playing with him,” she said, her green eyes sparkling. “I am sitting on my bed, minding my own business, reading a book, and he just whopped me upside the head.”

“Well then, that's his problem. He wants you to play with him.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “I'll just go outside and read.”

She turned and disappeared down the hallway, then came back dressed in her winter coat and slippers, her book in her hand. “I'll just go out on the porch and read.”

“It's twenty degrees outside,” I said.

“I don't care,” she snapped. “It's better than having to put up with
him!
”

The door slammed behind her as she headed out to the back porch. Collette looked at me and then laughed.

“I give her ten minutes,” I said.

“God, were we like that?”

“Yup,” I said.

“Except you never had any siblings to fight with,” she said. “I had my sister, who hated my guts. We got over that, though. Funny how that works.”

“Yeah, you're right. I never had any siblings,” I said. My voice trailed off as I reached for a pan from underneath the stove.

“Oooh, I detect a shift in mood here,” Collette said.

“Hmm? Oh, no, I'm fine,” I said.

“No, having Hugh Jackman lick your toes is
fine,
darling. What you are is … distracted.”

“Right,” I said laughing. “I'm fine.”

She said nothing and went about chopping up my inferior yellow onion. Collette is really good about letting me come to her with things, rather than prying. I can't say that I'm as good a friend. I usually pry everything from her. Patience is not one of my virtues. “So, tell me what you know about the wreck,” she said, changing the subject.

“Well, funny you should ask. In between tours, I managed to get some reading done, although not nearly enough.”

“Yeah? And?”

“Well, I think she might have been loaded flat. I've got a call into one of the historical societies down in Arkansas,” I said. “I want to see if they've got a picture of
The Phantom
as she left port. We might get lucky.”

“What good will that do?”

“Show if she was loaded flat. She may have had too many people on board, so that when the captain flanked her, which the eyewitnesses said he did, the water would have swept up on the deck, probably knocking people off into the river right then and there. Then it would have been just a matter of her turning on her side and going under.”

“So … where's the mystery in that?”

“There isn't one. Except why a seasoned pilot of a steamer would flank his ship that hard, knowing he was loaded flat. That doesn't make sense.”

“What do you know about the pilot?”

“Not a lot,” I said. “That's one of the things I planned on reading about tomorrow.”

“And Jessica Huntleigh?”

“You know, I don't really know that much. I'm going to ask Sylvia some questions about her when I get a chance.”

“What about … you know, the diamonds?” she asked, stirring the pasta sauce.

“I'm going to read the eyewitness accounts over, too. Jacob Lahrs—”

“Who?”

“The college professor who's down there digging right now. He claims that the whole diamond myth came from one source only. I can check that out tomorrow, too.”

“One source?” she asked, surprised. “Isn't that sometimes how things get started? So, what's the scoop on Jacob Lahrs?”

“Supposedly, he's the great-grandson of the captain.”

“You're joking,” she said.

“Nope.”

“Huh,” she said. “When can I get down there to see the wreckage?”

“Tomorrow, if you want.”

“Think you could get me an interview with Lahrs?”

“Most likely.”

“Great. And can I have access to all of your papers on the subject?”

I hesitated a moment.

“What?”

“I'm not going to tell you how to write your article or anything, but … Well, this whole diamond thing, could you play it down a little?”

She gave me an incredulous look. “And compromise good journalism?”

“Collette,” I said. “It could do a lot of damage.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “Tell you what. If there's nothing to it—I mean if there is nothing to corroborate the eyewitness's story—then I'll just give it a two-sentence pass. All right? But if there is something to it, then I'm going to have to devote a little more column space to it than that.”

My silence seemed more judgmental than I meant it to be.

“It's my job,” she said. “I'm not going to exploit the town.”

“No, I know that,” I said. “I didn't mean to imply otherwise.”

The front door opened in the other room. “What smells good?” Rudy yelled.

Collette winked at me. “Now let's see if we can't get this husband of yours to stick around awhile. No fresh garlic,” she muttered.

Ten

Saturday night in New Kassel isn't exactly like Saturday night on the Landing in downtown St. Louis, or in the Loop, for that matter. No, Saturday night in New Kassel consists of bowling, families eating out, gathering at the Corner Bar, bingo at the KC Hall, or just hanging out at Chuck's. For a bit of a wild time, one can wander over to Wisteria or make the journey up to St. Louis. Of course, there's loads of fine dining here. And in certain seasons, we often have a Blue Grass Festival, hay rides, that sort of thing. But not in the middle of January, when it's colder than in the Yukon.

Collette was used to going out on Saturday nights, so I accompanied her to the Corner Bar. That was as crazy as she would get tonight. Even though she was just going out to have a beer in a dead-end town, she still had to dress up. She had changed into a pair of those low-rider jeans and a sparkly sweater. She had put on heels, more makeup and, yes, more perfume.

The Corner Bar is, well, your typical neighborhood bar. Nothing fancy about it. It is located on the corner—thus the name—of Jefferson and Western Road. Even the door opens directly onto the corner. Once inside, I had to adjust my eyes to see through all the smoke. The only lights on in the place were the lights behind the bar, advertising different beers, and candles on the tables. My dad once said that the reason the lights are so low in a bar is so that you won't realize, until the next morning, what an ugly woman you'd picked up. He was half-joking when he said it, but looking around the bar, I had to wonder if maybe there wasn't some truth to his philosophy.

The bar was directly to our right, some booths were to our left, and toward the back were the pool tables and shuffle board. A Bob Seger song played from the jukebox. “You'll Accomp'ny Me,” I believe. I shook off the cold as we entered the bar, along with some of the snow that had started to fall. I waved to the owner, Hiram Gernsheim, who was standing behind the bar and laughing it up with a couple of regulars. He waved back, looking a little surprised, because this was not my normal hangout.

We sat down in a booth, and before our coats were even off, Hiram was standing at our table. “Hey, Torie. What brings you in from the cold?”

I pointed to Collette. “You remember Collette,” I said.

He looked at her a moment and then recognition hit. “Lordy, I haven't seen you since you was right out of school. Whatcha been up to, girl?”

“Just working,” she said. “Seems like that's all I ever do.”

“I hear that,” he said. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

“I'll have a Bud Light,” she said.

“Jeez, Collette, I figured you'd have found a different beer by now,” I said.

“What's wrong with Bud Light?” she asked.

“It's just so … Yuppie. And it gives you the farts,” I added.

Hiram laughed and wiped his hands on his bar rag.

“I'll have … an amber bock,” I said. “Schlafleys.”

“Sure thing,” he said, and walked away.

“I can't believe you grew up in a German—that's
German
—town and you drink Bud Light,” I said.

“Well,
you
didn't have fresh garlic,” she snapped.

“True,” I said. “I guess we're even.”

We were halfway through our beers, talking and catching up on things, when I noticed Collette was no longer listening to me. Her eyes had wandered toward the door, which I couldn't see because my back was to it. She made eye contact with me a few times and she'd say “Uh-huh” every now and then, but she was obviously deeply studying something or somebody other than me.

“And then,” I said, “the baboons came down and ate all the ice cream that the aliens had left.”

“Don't you hate when that happens?” she said.

“Colette,” I said, giggling. “Yoo-hoo. Earth to Collette.”

She snapped to then and blushed all the way down her neck. “Okay, I'm sorry,” she said. “But that guy has a seriously cute butt.”

I turned around in my seat to see who was the owner of the seriously cute butt. It was Jacob Lahrs. He was laughing and drinking. It looked as if he was celebrating something with his assistant, Jeremiah Ketchum, and his student, Danny Jones. Funny, I hadn't noticed Jacob Lahrs's seriously cute butt when I met him the other day. Maybe it was the angle at which Collette was sitting. Or maybe it was because I was married—one sort of conditions oneself not to look at the dessert one can't have.

“That's Jacob Lahrs,” I said to her, smiling.

“Jacob Lahrs … the professor?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

“Yup. You want that interview?”

“Oh, do I ever,” Collette said, grinning widely.

“Come on,” I said, and motioned her over. We got out of the booth and walked over to the three men standing at the end of the bar. “Professor Lahrs!” I called.

He turned around and smiled when he saw me. He was wearing a black turtleneck and had pushed the sleeves up to his elbows. “Mrs. O'Shea,” he said. “Never expected to see you in here.”

“Yeah, well … My friend comes down from the city and I get all wild. Go figure. This is my friend Collette,” I said.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

She purred back some response, and I just knew I was about to watch the master at work. Collette loves men. Lots of men.

“Call me Jacob,” he said. “What brings you here, Mrs. O'Shea?”

“We just came out for a beer. Collette is a reporter,” I told him. “And she was hoping to get an interview with you.”

“Oh, you can't interview me tonight,” he said, all serious.

“Why not?” she asked, batting her eyes.

“Never do interviews when you're under the influence, because you never know what you may say. I once promised a woman my grandmother's antique clock after having seven too many Bloody Marys. My grandmother was not happy, and neither was the woman. Especially since she'd had such an … uninhibited time the night before.”

He winked at Collette, and I nearly puked.

I looked at Danny Jones, who was entirely too young to be drinking. In Missouri, a person has to be twenty-one to drink, and if Danny Jones was even twenty, I'd eat my hat. I took his glass from him and sniffed it. He looked a little shocked at first, but then he smiled at me. “It's just Pepsi,” he said.

“Good. I'd hate to see Hiram lose his liquor license because of you.”

“Don't worry,” he said, placing his hand across his heart. “I didn't even
try
to get liquor.”

“So, what's the celebration all about?”

“Celebration?” Jeremiah Ketchum asked.

“You all seem like you're celebrating.”

“Oh, nothing,” Jeremiah replied.

“Now Jeremiah,” Jacob said, chastising him. “We can tell Mrs. O'Shea. I think I may have discovered how
The Phantom
sank.”

“The captain flanked when he shouldn't have,” I said. “That's how the boat sank.”

Jacob's green eyes narrowed on me. “Are you suggesting my great-grandfather was responsible for that accident?”

“He was the captain. Are you suggesting that he wasn't?” I asked.

Collette jabbed me in the ribs.

“He never meant to hurt anybody,” Jacob said defensively.

“I wasn't suggesting that he did,” I said. “I'm just saying that he was in charge and he was in the pilothouse. Ultimately, he was responsible. What do you think happened?”

“There's a lot of damage on the side of the boat,” he said. “I think he might have run into something in the water, or maybe something hit him.”

“Could the damage have been inflicted after the wreck? I mean, it's been lying there for over eighty years. Maybe something else ran into it in the past eighty years while it was just sitting there,” I said.

Jeremiah's gaze flicked to Jacob's face and then back to mine.

“There's always that possibility,” Jeremiah said finally.