Lethal Lineage (23 page)
“And the furniture?”
“The type she has? They might try for ebay, but I’m not sure. We’d like to just leave it here, of course, or let her landlord buy it, but again, since we haven’t located the family we have to keep it. Unfortunately, the landlord wants to rent this place out immediately.”
We wasted no time packing up the house. Then we drove to a U-Haul center and rented a trailer. The manager maintained a list of high school boys who welcomed a chance to earn extra money.
Brooks secured the trailer hitch onto the Suburban and drove back to the house. She gave quick directions to the two eager young men, who were clearly happy to lend their muscular assistance to the KBI.
In a very short time, Mary Farnsworth’s house was stripped bare.
It was as though she had never existed.
I couldn’t fall asleep. Keith moved constantly from his front to his back, then each side, and frequently adjusted his pillow. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?” I whispered softly. The clock hand pointed to 1:30.
He grunted, and sat up and switched on the light on the bed table. “Mind if I read?” He turned and kissed my cheek.
“No. Mind if I do?”
But I couldn’t concentrate. I finally put down my book and reached for a notepad. I made a little flow chart of all the people who were involved with this entire fiasco. There were very few logical connections and none at all that led to Mary Farnsworth’s death.
The KBI was the A team. As far as I knew, there was nothing I could contribute that they could not do better. But I kept coming back to one name. Or rather a pair of names. Keith put down his book and glanced at my list.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
But there was. In the space of a few seconds, I decided to tackle Bishop Talesbury. That man had called the historical society and wanted to tell me something. What was it? He had chickened out. Changed his mind. Tomorrow I would track the bastard down and wring it out of him, if necessary.
The second person I need to extract information from was Irwin Deal, but I wasn’t that gutsy. Thinking about his cold lifeless eyes, I shivered.
***
I was up before dawn the next morning, and in surprisingly good shape. Deciding on a course of action does wonders. At some point between waking and sleeping, I had decided to confront Talesbury and force him to answer questions.
Sam and I had the right to do that despite the fact the KBI no longer considered Bishop Talesbury a person of interest. And Keith, I reminded myself. And Keith. As an official member of the Carlton County sheriff’s department.
We had a copy of Talesbury’s and Deal’s statements to the KBI taken during their earlier trip to Topeka when Agent Dimon had turned over the keys to the church over to Talesbury. Since the bishop had presented court papers proving the land and the church legally belonged to him and St. Helena was no longer a crime scene, Dimon could not have done anything else. Besides, at that time Deal was still a sheriff and had insisted his county was in charge of the investigation.
***
All coffeed up and braced for a fight, I drove over to St. Helena, hoping to find Talesbury there. The sky was clear and across our pasture chartreuse yarrow buds sparkled with a touch of dew. It made a deceptively pleasant setting for the bizarre tableau before me when I topped the rise on the road that went past the church.
In the lot in front of the church were four cars and four people! Talesbury, Deal, Myrna Bedsloe, and Chip Ferguson. They were standing outside the church and appeared to be arguing. It was the first time I could recall seeing Myrna without a child on her hip. She shook her finger at Deal who was waving his arms. Chip stood with his fists clenched and his arms pressed against his sides. Talesbury paced, with his hands behind his back.
They all heard my car, of course, and stopped and stared. All thoughts of having a conversation with Talesbury vanished so I simply gave a feeble wave and drove on past the church. Simply Undersheriff Albright doing her duty. Simply making her rounds.
But what the hell?
***
I wanted to talk to Margaret Atkinson. Immediately. I called Sam. “I’ll be late. Probably won’t be there until around ten. I need to swing by the historical society.” It was a statement, not a request.
“No problem,” he said.
Margaret would be more than willing to answer my questions. No matter what interpretation she made of a person’s motives, she was a walking database of seemingly unrelated tidbits.
“I thought you were on duty today,” she said, when I walked through the door.
“I am. I have a few questions. Not related to anything that has to do with the sheriff’s office.” I hastily held up my hand, palm outward, in what I hoped she would take as a gesture of peace. “Something else. Just something I’m curious about.”
She relaxed. Whenever she suspected she was being quizzed about anything to do with my “other job” she immediately clammed up. As though it would be held against her in a court of law, whether she had committed a crime or not.
I sat opposite her, chin in hand. “There’s something I want to know. Do you know of any connection at all, I mean
anything,
between Chip Ferguson and Myrna Bedsloe? Anything at all those two have in common?”
“Greed,” she said immediately. “Naked greed.” Her lips thinned with disapproval. “Land hungry. Both of them.”
“I’m sure you’re right about Chip, Margaret, but Myrna?”
“Absolutely. It’s in her blood. Tim may be the front man sneaking around to all these auctions, but you can bet Myrna is the mastermind. Acre by acre. Same as her father before her.”
I leaned back and gave it some thought, then wandered over to the coffee carafe. It was full of hot water and I needed more than a cup of timid tea. Margaret’s assessment certainly didn’t explain what I’d had witnessed this morning.
“Is there something more direct than shared personality traits? A lot of people in Northwest Kansas are land hungry.”
She carefully laid down her pencil, then looked up at me with feigned reluctance. “Well, as a matter of fact, according to my husband, there’s a rumor going around the boys at the coffee shop that those two have become thicker than thieves.”
“My god.”
“Not that way. Chip is old enough to be her grandfather. It’s not that. But they say folks have seen them together at seed stores and equipment dealers, and a couple of folks have driven by the Bedsloes and seen them together walking around in fields.”
“Why?” I sat back. “What on earth is going on?”
“You asked if there was a connection,” Margaret said primly. “There is something. Something there, but I don’t know what. Why? Is it important?”
“No, I was just curious,” I said honestly. “I saw them together this morning and I thought it was peculiar. More than peculiar.”
I suspected their friendship began the day Chip handed Myrna the brochure on rust-resistant wheat. She’d seemed genuinely eager to hear his advice. He had been all too happy to give it. And those adoring red-headed boys!
He’d been adopted.
***
“Going fishing,” Sam rose when I walked through the door. “I’ll be at Lake Pleasant. For the whole rest of the day. With any luck at all.”
“Well if anyone deserves a little time off…”
He gave me a sour smile and slapped his Stetson on his head. “I’ll be out of range.”
“Cool. Besides, I think I know an overanxious husband who will be here in a flash if anything comes up.”
Josie called mid-afternoon. “I don’t suppose there’s been some miraculous break in the case in my absence?”
“None.” I told her about Brooks’ trip back to pack up Reverend Mary’s house. “She said the agency has to move on to other cases. They are at an impasse.”
“Are you?”
“No, I’m not. In fact, there’s a number of things I want to check out.” I told her about Talesbury’s incomplete message on my answering machine. “I’m positive he intended to tell me something and then changed his mind.”
“Would he, could he, if he wasn’t staying with Irwin Deal? Is it a matter of not wanting to bite the hand that feeds you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lottie, I been thinking and reading about Irwin Deal. I doubt if he was the kind of sadistic child who tortures animals, then progressed to more violent crimes. I think he’s the kind of man who gains control over others through threats against their pets.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes. Sadly enough, we see it all too often in children who are in foster care. Their own parents, or the substitute parents they are placed with, threaten to do terrible things to their dogs and cats. It works like a charm. Produces practically perfect children.”
I shuddered and closed my eyes to shut out the image of cruelty. Utter helplessness. Desperate children willing to do anything to protect their pets. “Monsters.”
“Exactly. But the persons capable of such actions aren’t attracted to this behavior if there’s no pay-off other than witnessing torture.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Just wanted to give you my latest thinking on this whole mess. I’ll see you this weekend.”
“You’re coming out here again this weekend?”
“Yes, didn’t Keith tell you? He asked me to be his partner in the Homestead Fiddlers competition this weekend.”
We hung up and my head reeled. Keith had asked Josie to be his partner? Without even telling me?
I felt left out. Although I was aware that he and my sister had moved from a frankly antagonistic relationship when we were first married to one of mutual respect, my response was pure envy. Childish, unnerving.
Already unsettled by Josie’s carefully parsed description of people who tortured animals for fun, and those who did it to gain control over others, I spent the next couple of hours compulsively typing labels for files. Irwin Deal’s face kept coming to mind. His cold black eyes. His spiteful relations. But there had been only one murdering ancestor that I knew of, and that had been within the family.
Then I brooded over sibling relationships. Historical ones and my own. As twins, Josie and I had been constantly scrutinized and compared when we were children. Identical in appearance, we had always known we shared the same heart. Came from the same egg. Yet, as we aged, differences emerged. At first they were subtle, then they became more obvious, and by the time we were shipped off to finishing school, we flaunted our individuality.
We even chose different sports and, to our hovering parents’ dismay, we refused team involvement. Neither one of us wanted to kick a soccer ball or join a rowing crew. To spite our father, Josie took up fencing and I became a crack shot. Both were utterly useless activities and we were quite pleased with ourselves.
Then against our will, the split went deeper. Although we both soared academically, Josie’s affinity for music surprised everyone except me. I had always known this about her, even before our parents were aware that this one daughter deserved the finest instruction. She might have been a concert pianist. Would have been, if she had chosen that route. She progressed to a certain point, then stopped short of a life on the stage.
It was complicated and we had never discussed it. But I’ve always known she would only go so far along a path that would leave me behind. And beyond that, she was too private and self-protective. She would never be able to bear the emotional exposure required of professional musicians.
Josie had to contend with my easy ability with words, my ability to make connections, my easy recall of information that teachers had praised since I was in grade school. By five o’clock, I had settled down.
We all have our crosses to bear. She and Keith had dueled to a musical stand-off last fall. And if I didn’t like feeling like a little waif peeping through a window, I would have to get over it.
They were both simply superior musicians.
All duded up for the contest, Josie wore a sparkly turquoise shirt sprinkled with rhinestones. Her slim jeans were tucked into embroidered boots. Keith had found a coordinating plaid western snap-button shirt that accentuated his shoulders and complemented her star-spangled attire.
Vendors had set up booths at the west side of the park and offered an abundant supply of junk food: hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, snow cones, funnel cakes, nachos with cheese, and giant pretzels.
The violin or fiddle is Keith’s best instrument. However, he’s an excellent guitarist. Although Josie was a concert- level pianist, she was also an exceptional violinist and a recent convert to bluegrass fiddling. She had assumed that bluegrass and country/western were one and the same before Keith set her straight and bested her in their classical music showdown.
Sam and I were in full uniform, which meant jeans, medium blue shirts, badges displayed prominently, and guns anchored on our belts.
This contest was sparsely attended but would generate money to purchase equipment for our county-owned theatre. Today’s event was minor compared to our county fair which took place the last weekend in July. There were no rides or carnival attractions at the Homestead Fiddlers contest. Most of the organizations did not bother to put up booths as the event attracted mostly amateur musicians and bluegrass fans who were notoriously cheap.
Josie had brought Tosca. I would take care of her while she and Keith played. Until then, she trotted at Josie’s side until another larger dog showed interest in her perfumed, beribboned presence.
Amused, I watched my sister evaluate the persons she would contend against. The Anthony sisters, lively brunettes, wearing red-tiered skirts with white peasant blouses, played very well, but usually chose safe, crowd-pleasing tunes. There were three men who played in separate bands, but were very good friends and called on one another to cover in emergencies. There was the usual assortment of beginners and youngsters and older men who sawed away at old time dance tunes. None were professional musicians.
Keith and Josie walked up to the platform and found their way down the line of chairs. Next to them, at the very end, sat Old Man Synder, toothless, ageless, dressed in old blue chinos with a yellowed white shirt and a shiny green tie of indeterminate age. “How do,” he said to Josie as she sat next to him. His tipped-back stained old fedora seemed glued to his head.
Keith had coached Josie on the finer points of the contest and talked hard to wean her away from complex arrangements that he didn’t feel she could master in a short time. She’d scorned “Orange Blossom Special” when he insisted they play it.
“Look, this is your debut. Do you want to learn to play bluegrass or not? This song establishes your credentials with the crowd,” he’d argued. “At some point, some time, somewhere, someone is going to request ‘Orange Blossom Special.’ That and ‘Fire on the Mountain.’ You can count on it.”
She’d made a show of tilting back her head and raising her bow upright to the tip of her nose like she was a seal balancing a ball. “And I mus’ go ‘tru zis humiliating ritual, why?” She lowered her bow and dramatically lifted her elbow to her brow. “Why ‘mus I sacrifice my art to ze masses? Why?”
I’d coughed and spurted scotch and Keith looked at each of us in turn and shook his head. I could count on one hand the number of people who had ever seen this side of my sister.
But she had tackled the complexity of double shuffles and double stops and he had coached her until she understood how simultaneously to captivate the crowd and overwhelm the judges.
Now the audience politely applauded “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and other squeaky juvenile classics and nodded in the direction of the contestants’ beaming parents. The adult section began an hour later with the Anthony sisters and other players who were generally considered to be of medium ability.
All had some sort of rhythmic accompaniment such as a guitar or upright bass. A few brought boom boxes that served the same purpose. This was not a major contest, so anything was allowed.
Josie and Old Man Snyder were the only ones left.
“No, you’re not seeing double here folks. Here from the grand city of Manhattan, Kansas is Miss Josie Albright, sister of very own undersheriff, Lottie Albright. And I see the one little lady is armed? See that, judges? Now, I’m not telling you what to do, but a word to the wise if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, brother,” I whispered to Tosca before I gave the crowd a feeble wave.
Keith counted, then began the heavy undulating base roll of chords that emulated a railroad engine. Josie hung her head then picked up the bow and executed the multi-stringed stroke that signaled the beginning of “Orange Blossom Special.” She casually lowered the bow to her side, fingers extended, counting measures before she lifted it again and added more swipes to Keith’s relentlessly accelerating rhythm.
“She’s a ham. Don’t look,” I whispered to Tosca. But I was thrilled with the audience’s sudden intake of breath as my sister finally began the melody. Her fingers flew up and down the neck of the fiddle and the bow was soon gyrating and vibrating at an incredible speed.
When she finished, the crowd went wild. Triumphant, her eyes shone and she bowed her head and she and Keith walked back to their chairs.
Old Man Snyder had remained expressionless throughout, but he turned and gave Josie a pleased nod of acknowledgement before he rose. He walked over to a cheap boom box with a cassette deck, adjusted a few knobs and walked up to the microphone with his scarred old fiddle.
He gently tapped his foot. The crowd hushed with anticipation. I closed my eyes. I had heard him before and had imagined Old Man Snyder was the reason God created music. When the worlds were formed and the Creator realized human beings needed something more, this old man had stepped forward.
With the first note he launched into an incredibly complex arrangement of the ultimate fiddle challenge, “Limerock.” His bow floated over the strings and his fingers traveled so rapidly across the frets that it did not seem possible that he could produce such a clear melody and still stay true to the subtle rhythm.
When he finished, a chill ran down my spine. Stunned, like the rest of the audience, it was several seconds before I rose to award him a standing ovation. Awestruck, Josie gaped, then leapt to her feet and joined the clapping and chorus of bravos.
Snyder won.
He had never lost a contest.
Keith and Josie climbed down from the platform, then walked over to where I stood with a goofy smile on my face.
“You were set up,” I said to Josie.
“You told me the selection had to be bluegrass, not classical,” Josie said to Keith.
“‘Limerock’ is a bluegrass tune. It’s traditional.”
“That was the most astonishing performance I’ve ever heard,” Josie said.
“Didn’t Keith mention this old man when you were settling on your number?”
“Ladies! No, honest-to-god, I swear I didn’t know that old man would be here today.” He started backing away with a laugh and aped covering his head as though he was in mortal danger.
“Do you think I care about losing this contest? I want to know how more about that man. That was amazing. Beyond amazing. And you’re fired, my friend. I want to know if that old man gives lessons.”
“He just shows up,” Keith said. “He’s from Bidwell County and he’s a farmer. We can’t tell which contests he will enter.”
My cell phone rang.
“He’s dead.” For a moment I was disoriented, unable to make the transition from hearing mesmerizing otherworldly music to dealing with the reality of harsh sobbed words.
“Who is this? And who is dead?”
“Myrna. Myrna Bedsloe. Chip. Chip is dead.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m on the county road leading up to Chip’s place. He’s in his pickup. And he’s dead. I don’t know what Jimmy is going to do. What any of us are going to do.”
“Myrna, I’ll be right there. Are the boys with you?”
“Yes. They are.”
“OK. Take them on home. Right now. I’ll be there in a flash and take care of everything.”
I hung up and told Keith, then ran over to tell Sam who was directing the orderly departure of vehicles from the park.
“Keith and I can go,” I said, “unless you want to. I can take over here.”
“The poor bastard. No, it’s not my favorite job.”