A Comedy of Heirs (16 page)

“Oh, gosh, I'm sorry. We sort of had a family incident last night and my mind just isn't here with my body.”

“That's all right. You know what I always say. As long as nobody's dead,” she said. I didn't bother to tell her that somebody was dead. I just gave a nervous laugh and she got on with why she called. “I had a chance to look that stuff up for you. I found the articles on the swimming accident, found a little on the resorts you asked about
and
Naomi Cordieu just happened to come in to the library about an hour after you left yesterday.”

Okay, Naomi was who again? Jeez, nothing like a family crisis to just blow the heck out of your short-term memory. Ms. Keifer took my silence to be exactly what it was, lack of memory, and filled in for me. “The historical society. You asked about her.”

Oh yeah, the lady that wrote the article on Bradley Ferguson. “Oh, okay,” I said.

“I told her that you'd asked about her and told her what I was looking up for you and she got real interested in you. I told her that I couldn't give out your phone number, but she gave me hers and asked if I would give it to you. She said that she would very much like to speak with you.”

Really. “Really?” I asked. “Why?”

“I'm not sure why, she just said that she could help you out with your questions,” Robin said.

“All right. Well, give me her phone number,” I said. She gave me the number, I wrote it down and then a silence hung in the air. I had promised her payment to look this stuff up and I didn't want her to think that now I was going to try and skip out on paying her, or that I didn't want the information. “Um, I'll be down before noon,” I said. “To pick the stuff up and pay you.”

“All right,” she said. “See you then.”

I hung up the phone, still feeling kind of oogie from the night of shock and tears and from lack of sleep. When would I ever get enough sleep? I looked at the phone number I'd written down and decided I would go ahead and call it. What could it hurt?

I dialed the number. A firm, resounding voice answered the phone. “Naomi.”

“Hi, Naomi Cordieu? This is Torie O'Shea,” I said.

“Oh, hello. I am so glad you called. I was hoping that you would. When can I meet with you?” she asked.

“Uh … well…” I sputtered.

“Are you John Robert's relation? You are, aren't you?”

I didn't know if I should answer her or not. This definitely was not what I was expecting. Even though, I couldn't really tell you what it was that I
was
expecting. “Uh, who are you exactly?”

“I am Bradley Ferguson's widow. I remarried a man named Arthur Cordieu after Bradley died in Africa.”

“You are Bradley F.'s widow? Bradley Ferguson?”

“Yes.”

I should have known that the glowing review of his life in the historical society paper was just slanted enough that she would be related in some way. I stood in the kitchen and scratched my head as Rudy came in and started rummaging around for something. He was making enough noise for ten people. I stuck my finger in my open ear and said, “I'm coming down to Progress to get some information.”

“Yes, I know,” she said.

“I'll come by and we can talk then,” I said, straining to hear her and myself.

“Just tell me, are you John Robert's relation?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am his granddaughter.”

“I knew it,” she said and sighed. She gave me directions to her house, which was right off the outer road. I had passed it a dozen times.

“I'll see you in about two hours,” I said and hung up.

I stood there playing with my lower lip between my thumb and forefinger, staring at the kitchen floor.

“Have you seen the yellow pages?” Rudy asked.

“They are up there in that top cabinet,” I said. “Jeez, you know you could call information.”

“I'll call information when it's free,” he declared. He pulled a chair over and opened the top cabinet.

“Be careful of the deep fryer,” I said. “It likes to fall out and surprise people.”

“Are you okay?” he asked from the chair.

“Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine. I'm going down to Progress,” I said. “I'll be back before three, because the sheriff is coming by. Take notes on any funeral arrangements or anything for Uncle Jed.”

“Okay,” he said.

Twenty-one

Before I left for Progress, I needed to go by and tell Sylvia that I would have to extend my vacation, probably to Monday or Tuesday, depending on funeral arrangements. I also wanted to check in and see if everything was all right. I mean, what if she liked Helen's substitution of me better than me?

I wore one of those big sloppy jean dresses with black tights under it, boots, and a red turtleneck. I pulled my station wagon off the main road and parallel parked it right in front of the Gaheimer House. Which, if Sylvia knew that I'd done it, she would have a fit and make me move.

I opened the door to the Gaheimer House and instantly smelled a tantalizing mixture of caramel and popcorn. Wilma was making her world-famous popcorn balls. Well, at least eastern Missouri famous. “Hello?” I yelled out.

I walked down the hall, passed my office on the right and went into the kitchen.

“Torie!” Wilma said and walked over with her arms wide to embrace me in a very padded hug. She wore a big green kimono-looking thing and I noticed that her hair was still down. The first time was an accident. I would venture to say that if she was still wearing it down it because she'd found a way to irritate her sister. “We have missed you so much.”

“Well, thank you,” I said. I wasn't so sure that Sylvia had missed me, but I knew that Wilma had.

“How have things been going?” I asked. “Helen doing okay?”

“Oh sure, sure. She and Sylvia have a fight every single day over something,” she said.

“We do not,” Sylvia said from the doorway. I turned around and was surprised to find myself happy to see Sylvia. My family definitely had to go.

“Hi, Sylvia,” I said.

“Victory,” she said and nodded. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just came by to see how things were going. My uncle died and I'm going to have to extend my vacation until the funeral is over. They haven't planned it yet, though, so I'm not sure when it will be.”

“Jed, huh?” Sylvia asked.

“Yes, you heard.”

“How could you not hear? Sirens going everywhere…”

“There was one siren,” I corrected her.

“I think your father should host his own family reunions from now on,” Sylvia said, pointing her finger at me. “Our town can't handle all of you Keiths at one time. Something bad always happens.”

“Was he pushed?” Wilma asked. “We heard he was pushed. Murdered.”

“No, Wilma,” I said. Where had she heard that from? “Well, actually we don't know what happened just yet.”

“So he could have been pushed,” Wilma said.

“Could have, but unlikely,” I answered. I had no particular evidence to back that statement up, I was just hoping with all my might that it was true.

“Wedding bells and pitter-patters,” Wilma said back to me. God, she made my head hurt.

“What?” I asked. “What are you talking about, Wilma?”

“Wedding bells—”

“The sheriff and your mother,” Sylvia chimed in. “We are just completely appalled.”

“Well, I'm not going to argue with you on that one, Sylvia. How did you guys find out so quick?” I asked, not sure I really even wanted to know.

“And pitter-patter…” Wilma added.

I know my jaw must have hung open to my chest. How did they know about this? What was up with this town, anyway? I know that small towns are like living in fishbowls, but Jeez, this was ridiculous.

“Pitter-patter…” Wilma said, smiling from ear to ear. Sylvia stood with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

“All right, yes, I'm pregnant,” I said.

“Goody, goody,” Wilma said and bounced up and down as much as a two-hundred-pound ninety-year-old could bounce.

“Oh, for Pete's sake, Victory!! Have you no shame?” Sylvia asked.

“Shame?” I asked.

“A woman your age…”

“My age? Sylvia, I'm only thirty something. Early thirty something. What is wrong with that?” Sylvia just rolled her eyes skyward, as if I would just never understand. I felt rather odd, standing there in the kitchen with Wilma beaming at me and Sylvia scowling at me. I felt odd because they knew things about my life suddenly that I couldn't for the life of me figure out how they knew. I could be really paranoid here and wonder if somebody had bugged my house or something.

“How do you guys know all of this stuff?” I asked.

“It's not hard to figure out. Rudy told Chuck the other night when they were playing pool that you guys might be building a room addition. Chuck mentioned it to Elmer who mentioned it to Eleanore and everybody knows that a room addition means a
room addition.
Not to mention, you've looked really tired lately,” Sylvia explained.

“I do not look tired,” I said. “Why does everybody keep telling me how tired I look? Did anybody ever think that maybe I look tired because I'm trying to juggle like fifty family members? No, everybody assumes it's something else!”

“And so far as your mother is concerned,” Sylvia said. “Sheriff Brooke told Elmer that he was going to be taking a vacation in the summer. Elmer asked what kind of vacation because everybody knows that the sheriff doesn't take a vacation, and he said … the kind you take with the woman you love. Everybody knows what that means.”

“Great Jehoshaphat,” I declared. “Since the sheriff is your great-stepnephew or something like that, does this mean we are going to be related?”

“Absolutely not!” Sylvia stated.

“Remind me never to tell Elmer anything,” I said and rubbed my head. I got what I wanted and that was for Sylvia to be yelling at me. God help me, I actually felt better.

THE NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

T
HE
N
EWS
Y
OU
M
IGHT
M
ISS

by Eleanore Murdoch

'Tis the season and all that good stuff. Just twelve more shopping days to the big day! Remember, support your local shop owners and buy Christmas here instead of those big chain stores up in the city. New Kassel was voted by
Midwest Living
as the most charming small town in Missouri to spend a vacation. Pat yourselves on the back for coming across as wholesome and American while they were here writing their article.

Wedding Bells!! Jalena Keith and Sheriff Colin Brooke are planning a summer wedding! It should be delightful. And Chuck Velasco has announced his engagement to Noble Quimbly's ex-wife, Susan. Not sure how delightful that one will be. No date is set as of yet.

Father Bingham wants everybody to know that he added an extra Mass on Christmas Day, so that nobody could have an excuse about sleeping in and not having time for the Lord.

And is it possible that one of our best-known faces is pregnant???

Until next time,

Eleanore

Twenty-two

I wasn't used to making two trips down to Progress in one week but today I needed the drive. The forty-five minutes it took to get there relaxed me and helped me cleanse myself of jumbled nerves and such. Images of my uncle floating in the freezing water. I could hardly think of that without tears instantly rising to my eyes, so I tried not to think about it. I thought of everything else. I did not want to think about Uncle Jed Keith.

The drive was beautiful. It looked as though I was driving in a crystal ball with all the snow and ice clinging to the trees and grass. I pulled into the parking lot of the library at exactly eleven-fifteen.

Robin Keifer waited for me behind the counter. She smiled that great smile of hers and patted a pile of papers to her right. “Just for you,” she said. “I think you'll be pleased.”

“I'm sure I will be,” I said. “I can't thank you enough.”

“It was my pleasure. I felt like I was doing something important. You know, to really help somebody,” she said.

“Well, you certainly were.” I got out my checkbook wrote her a check for the research she had done and handed it to her. She gave me the pile of photocopies. All I could think about was when would I have the time to read them?

“If you ever need anything else,” she said. “You let me know. I do this sort of thing every now and then. All of us librarians do. As a matter of fact, I looked up a bunch of stuff on the Keith murder a couple of weeks ago for somebody.”

I stopped, frozen by her words. “The Keith murder,” I repeated.

“Yeah, back in the late forties, a man was killed on his front porch. This research was easy, though, because the man knew the exact date that it happened.”

“What man? Who did you look this stuff up for?”

A puzzled look crossed her face. “I really don't know. He came in, requested it and came back a few hours later to get it. I couldn't charge him anything, though, because it was done on library time.”

“And you didn't get a name?” I asked.

“I might have gotten a name on that day, but I don't remember it. He was middle-aged. Forty-five to fifty-five. Somewhere around there. That's all I can tell you,” she said.

“Okay, well, you've got my number. Call me if you remember anything else,” I said.

“I will,” she said and smiled again.

So whoever sent me those copies of the newspaper articles didn't just happen upon them. They sent them to me on purpose. They wanted me to know. I let that thought brew in my brain for a while as I got in the car. I drove back out to the outer road off of the highway and found the yellow two-story colonial-style home that belonged to Naomi Cordieu. I had passed this house on my way to Progress or out to Pine Branch to visit my grandparents a thousand times. I wondered if she had lived in it all those years.