Killing Cousins (6 page)

I felt like a mother duck walking down the street with my children trailing behind me, with Matthew in one of those backpack baby carriers. I wondered if there was any order to the ducklings when they followed their mother or if they just fell into place however they happened to leave the nest, as my girls did.

The heat rose off the brick of the Gaheimer house and I knew it was going to be a scorcher today. August is usually pretty hot in Missouri, though the first half of this month had been the exception to the rule. But even the heat was bearable; it was when the humidity settled in on the land like a warm wet blanket that you would lose your blooming mind and your air-conditioning bill would be in the triple digits. It felt as if it was going to be one of those days.

We walked into the Gaheimer house and immediately Sylvia was in the parlor like an ancient vulture ready to pounce on my children if they even looked as though they were going to touch anything. “Don't touch anything,” I said to the girls, and then looked up and smiled at Sylvia. “Good morning, Sylvia.”

“To what do I owe this visit?” she asked, her head shaking from age.

“I've come to look at the charts. I'm still looking at software, you know. I think it would be easier to put the information on the computer,” I said as I headed back to my dinky office. My gaggle of ducks and I walked through the long parlor, everybody's shoes clicking on the floor. Sylvia had had the pine floors waxed recently. The sunlight coming in through the long windows took on a blinding effect once it hit the floors. I passed the soda machine in the hallway and then silently counted to five.

“Can I have a soda?” Mary asked. Like clockwork. I love being able to predict my children.

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“Nope. You'll just have to go to the bathroom then. You can split one with Rachel on the way out,” I said. “Sit down and don't touch anything.”

Wilma Pershing appeared at the door. She was about two years younger than her sister Sylvia. Just recently she had started using a walker to get around. It broke my heart to see her have to use the walker because the Pershing sisters had always represented the independence that I hoped I would have at their age. Seeing Wilma with the walker just reminded me that eventually time gets everybody, and that was just depressing. I admit that it bothered me much more than it seemed to bother her.

She was pudgy, the epitome of the joyous old woman. She stood in the doorway and twirled the end of her hair around one finger.

“Children, children. All the children.” It was also a very sad, well-known fact that she was becoming senile. More and more she made no sense and seemed to revert to childlike rhymes and repetitions.

“Yes, Wilma. All of the children are with me today.”

“Hi, Wilma,” Rachel said. Wilma just waved to her. Her expression changed as she realized that her sister Sylvia was coming down the hall and headed in her direction.

“Bye, children,” she said and turned around and left. I had to wonder how much of her senility was real and how much of it was just to irritate her sister. Was this what I had to look forward to? Would Rachel and Mary try to irritate each other their whole lives? Would they never become best friends, as I'd hoped?

“So, it was Patrick Ward, was it?” Sylvia asked as she came into the office.

“Yeah,” I said as I headed for the file cabinet. “How did you find out so quickly?”

“Elmer's son is the coroner.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Small town. News travels fast.

“What's Mr. Ward doing down here?”

“I don't know,” I said. “That's why I'm here. Deputy Duran asked me to look up Patrick Ward's chart.”

Sylvia left and never said a word. I brought the “W” file over to my desk and stopped when I saw a Norman Rockwell tin sitting on the edge. I opened it and inside were chocolate chip cookies. Another token from my mother. I couldn't decide if she was doing this because she felt so guilty for leaving or just because she loved me. I think it was a little of the first and a lot of the second. “Grandma left us cookies,” I said to the girls with a smile on my face. “You want one?”

Both girls clambered to my desk and reached in to get a cookie. Mary took about seven until she saw the evil eye that I was giving her and then she graciously put two back. “Pig,” Rachel spat at her.

Mary made an oinking sound. Maybe someday they'll be friends, I thought hopefully.

“How do you know the cookies are from Grandma?” Rachel asked.

I smiled. “Who else would they be from?”

“We have the greatest grandma,” Mary said as she shoved another cookie in her mouth.

“Yes, you do,” I said.

I sat down without leaning back so as not to squish Matthew, and opened the “W” file until I came to the chart that said “Ward.” Lanna, that was his sister's name. Lanna Ward. Patrick and Lanna Ward were the children of Louis Ward and Anna Smoots. Nobody had penciled in any death dates for Lanna, and Sylvia was usually pretty good about that. In fact, after I left today she would probably come in behind me and pencil in poor Patrick's date. So I assumed that Lanna was still alive. Spouses were listed. Lanna Ward was now Lanna Petrovic. I ruffled through the pages and found the chart on Louis Ward, and it said he had been born in 1901 and had died in 1978. His sisters' names were Tamara, who married Sheldon Danvers, and Catherine, who married…Walter Finch.

Catherine Finch.

Patrick Ward was Catherine Finch's nephew.

So what? People are related to people all the time. Right? This was just a coincidence. Catherine Finch hadn't been murdered. There was no ongoing investigation of anything, so what difference did it make if her nephew had just been found dead under mysterious circumstances? None. None whatsoever. Then why did I feel so weird about it?

Sylvia walked by the office and I called out to her. She stopped.

“Did you know that Patrick Ward was the nephew of Catherine Finch?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Sylvia, why didn't you say something to me about it when I first came in?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Well…none. I suppose. I don't know, I'm working on her biography; I just thought you'd mention it.”

Sylvia simply shrugged and walked on. I picked up the phone and called Deputy Duran. He answered on the second ring. “Edwin, it's Torie.”

“Yeah? Whatcha got?”

“Um, Patrick Ward's sister's name is Lanna Petrovic.”

“Is she still in the area?”

“Well, the last address I have for her is not in New Kassel, but she's in Granite County. She's out your way, in Wisteria.”

“Thank you so much. You really saved me a lot of time.”

“No problem,” I said and thought to myself: That is how a sheriff should react when you do something to help him. Unlike my stepfather, who resented any help that I gave.

“I'll let you know what the autopsy says. It's going to be about three or four days, though.”

“Okay,” I said. I wondered why in the world he was going to let me know what the autopsy results were unless it was just a courtesy, since I had identified the body for him. “I'll talk to you later, then. If you need anything else, let me know.”

“Sure will.”

I hung up the phone and looked back at the papers sitting on my desk. I couldn't help but take a closer look at the family chart for Catherine Finch. She and Walter had had three children: Cecily Finch, Aurora Finch and Byron Lee Finch. This stopped me because I hadn't really come across a reference to the two girls before. If Catherine and Walter Finch had had other children, then why were Catherine's personal belongings and house being sold to strangers? Why weren't any of the personal items in that house going to her daughters?

“Mom, can I have a soda now?”

“No,” I said, without even looking up.

“Why?”

“You know why. There is too much sugar and caffeine. You don't need all of that stuff.”

“Then why do you drink it?” Mary asked.

“Just shush for ten seconds,” I said and tried to continue studying the charts. Catherine Ward Finch had had a sister named Tamara and a brother named Louis. I wasn't sure what else about that information sounded alarm bells, but something did. No matter how much I studied it, whatever it was that I was supposed to see didn't come to fruition, so I put it away.

I thought maybe it was time to start doing some firsthand interviews of Catherine's family. For the biography, of course.

Aurora Finch Guelders lived just across the river in Belleville, Illinois. On the west side of the Mississippi we tend to forget that Illinois is just a ten-or twenty-minute drive away, because we have no real need to go over there, save for the horse racing. Unless one is attending college at Parks, Belleville or SIU Edwardsville. Pretty much everything we need we can get right here on this side of the river. But the people on the Illinois side usually make trips to the Missouri side on a fairly regular basis. The reason? St. Louis is the largest metropolitan area closest to them. They come over for jobs and shopping, even for the excellent medical care.

I dropped the kids off at my Aunt Emily's for the two hours it was going to take me to visit Aurora Guelders. After making my way north on Highway 55, I swung a right and crossed the JB Bridge. That's local for Jefferson Barracks Bridge. Nobody ever calls it anything but the JB Bridge. The Mississippi seems wider up here than down by New Kassel. I'm not sure if it is or not. Maybe it's because down where I live there are high hills and cliffs, whereas this part of the Mississippi is surrounded by flat land.

Once in Illinois, I headed north on 255, where it would eventually connect with I–64. I know there is another way to get to Belleville, but I don't know my way around if I take that way. It's amazing how, as soon as you cross the river, the landscape changes almost immediately to flat open land with highways that seem wide, uncluttered and clean.

Passing through East St. Louis always depresses me, so I tried to keep my eyes on the road, rather than have them wander over the dilapidated houses and junk piles.

The last time I had been in Illinois was to visit Cahokia Mounds. I love it there. They are what's left of Indian burial mounds built there hundreds of years ago. Of course, many of them have been bulldozed down through the years by farmers, who had no clue what they were destroying. All they knew was that they didn't want to put a cornfield on top of that unusually steep hill over yonder.

Now there are a museum and a slide show at Cahokia, and the last time I visited they even had Indian powwow dancing. Climbing the tallest mound is not something for those with weak cardiovascular systems, though. I was huffing and puffing by the time I made it to the top, but it was worth it. I could see for miles around, and off in the distance I could hear the haunting sound of an Indian drum. It is one of my favorite local excursions. Well, that and the horse racing at Fairmount Park. But I haven't been there in years.

I finally got off on I–64 and then took 159 south to Belleville. Aurora Guelders lived on the other side of the fountain in the middle of the town square. Every time I go through Belleville, I always end up following the fountain all the way around and going back the way I came. I hate that thing, and I am glad that New Kassel doesn't have one, or I would have gathered signatures by now to get rid of it.

I was paying extra attention this time to make sure I did not go full circle around the fountain. A few streets later I turned left, made a few more turns and pulled into the driveway of a red brick house with a large white wraparound porch. The street invaded the yard, giving an overall claustrophobic feel to the front of the house.

I parked in the street and then walked up the wide steps to the front door, scraping my pant leg on a yellow rosebush that was much in need of pruning. A warm breeze ruffled the flag that hung from the porch, and the smell of roses punctuated the air. I knocked and looked around, waiting for somebody to answer the door. A climbing rosebush was sprawling up the trellis like a wild pink blanket.

A white lace curtain moved in the door and then a face peered out. Finally, the door opened. The woman who stood there said nothing, but waited for me to give her whatever excuse I had for interrupting her day.

“Mrs. Guelders?” I said.

“You are?” she asked.

I knew from the records at the Gaheimer house that Aurora Finch had been born in 1931, but the woman who answered the door didn't look a day over fifty. She was slender, and a few inches taller than I was, making her average height. She had short salt-and-pepper hair and vivid green eyes. I extended my hand. “My name is Victory O'Shea. I live in New Kassel, Missouri. Maybe you've heard of it?”

That was dumb. Of course she'd heard of it. She had grown up there. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Yes,” she said.

“It's not unlike Arthur and Arcola, Illinois,” I said, thinking that I would get brownie points for knowing the names of some tourist towns in Illinois. So far, I looked pretty dumb.

“I doubt that you have Amish living in New Kassel,” she said, and she was right. I just smiled. “What is it you want?”

At that moment I thought I could play both lead parts in the movie
Dumb and Dumber.
“Actually, I…uh…I work for the Historical Society, and, well, the president—”

“Sylvia Pershing?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling and still on the porch.

“She's immortal.”

“Possibly. Anyway, she has asked me to pen a few biographies on Granite County's more notable personalities. One of them is your mother,” I said.

Her expression dropped all the way to her knees in two seconds flat. “I have nothing to say,” she said and started to shut the door.

“Oh, please wait,” I said and put my foot inside her door. I know that was really pushy and if somebody had done it to me, I would have been outraged. But I didn't know how else to get her to listen. “I'm also handling her estate.”

Her green eyes narrowed on me and, if it was possible, turned a shade darker. I counted to five while she fought the internal struggle, whatever it was. “What do you mean, you're
handling
the estate?”

“Please, can I come in? You're losing all of your air-conditioning,” I said.

She raised her chin and pulled herself up ramrod-straight. “Of course,” she said.

The inside of her house looked as I'd imagined it would, rich colors and with lots of intricate lampshades and lace. Her house was what I call modern Victorian. It was Victorian, but not necessarily old-fashioned. I waited for her to tell me to sit down, because after what had just transpired on the porch, I didn't want to push my luck.

“Come to the kitchen,” she said and motioned me through the house. We passed through the dining room, with a table that was set in full china display. Down the hallway hung photographs of what I assumed were her children. Pictures of a boy and a girl taken in the 1950s—that would be about right. And at the end of the hall were newer pictures of children taken in the seventies and eighties. Grandchildren, I thought. Catherine Finch's great-grandchildren.

We reached her kitchen and she motioned for me to take a stool around a breakfast bar. “All I have to drink is tea.”

“That's fine,” I said.

She poured us each a glass of tea and sat down opposite me. “Now, what is this all about?”

“My stepfather, who is also the sheriff, has won the bid on your mother's estate. He is away on vacation and asked me if I would catalog your mother's…things,” I said. “And Sylvia also asked me to write a biography about her. It would be very difficult to write a biography about somebody without any personal interviews with the family and friends.”

She said nothing.

“Mrs. Guelders?”

She suddenly fixed her gaze on me and then opened her mouth and spoke. “My mother grew into a very bitter woman who trusted nobody. Not even her own children.”

“But—”

“Do you know that a woman is supposed to be closer to her daughters than anybody else in her life? After her husband and her own mother, her daughters are the closest things she has. I talk to my own daughter almost every day on the phone. How often do you talk to your mother?” she asked.

I looked down at the ice cubes floating in my tea. “Until two weeks ago, my mother lived with me,” I said. “We are very close.”

“And her mother?”

“My grandmother lives in the next town. I see her every week, I talk to her a couple of times a week. My mother talks to her every day,” I said.

“I don't know who my mother was,” she said. “I know who she was before 1938. And for about twenty years after that we had an amiable relationship, but never close. She could not get close to anybody because…I'm assuming you know about my brother.”

“Yes.”

“Because after that she couldn't move on. She couldn't get out of the old world long enough to see that there was a new one going on right in front of her. Our graduations, our weddings. She couldn't be happy about any of it because Byron was gone. After he disappeared, she held herself at a distance. Instead of becoming closer to us because of what happened, the separation increased. Then one day, she just turned her back on all of us. My own daughter never saw her grandmother after her sixth birthday,” she said. “My mother lived alone. She died alone. You die by how you live, you know.”

I hesitated a moment, letting that last part sink in. You die by how you live. “What made her change?”

“I'm not sure exactly. I have theories, none of which I need to share with you,” she said and took a drink of tea.

I looked around, nervous. Her house was modest in the grand scheme of things. Especially compared to her mother's. But I had the feeling that she had money. Her wedding ring sported at least two diamonds that were about a carat each. The earrings she wore were real gold. The china in the dining room looked German, late 1800s. The furniture was good quality. In fact, there was nothing in this house that looked cheap or just thrown together.

“Well, you certainly have that right,” I said.

“I don't need your absolution, Mrs. O'Shea.”

I was feeling more and more ill at ease. My normal charms were failing horribly with this woman. I could always get people to talk, basically I think people ended up talking just so they could get me to shut up, but at least they talked. This woman, it seemed, had said all she was going to say, and I couldn't charm her for anything. I knew if I got tougher with her she would just clam up and probably throw me out of her house. So, I tried a different approach. I tried sympathy.

“Your brother…”

“You can read it all in the sheriff's files. Before it became an FBI case, the sheriff took all of our statements.”

“All of whose statements?” I asked. I sipped my tea. Peppermint.

“Everybody who was there that night. I don't wish to talk about this.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know that his room—”

“The last time I was in my mother's home, it had been undisturbed. It was the same as it had been in 1938.”

“When were you in her home last?”

“In 1957.”

“It is still undisturbed.”

I let that hang there in the air for a moment, wondering if she was going to let it dissolve or if she was going to grab it and expand on it. She let it dissolve.

“What is it you want?” she asked, irritated.

“I was…well, I was wondering if you or your sister would like a few personal items from the house before…well—”

“You don't seem to know what it is you want, Mrs. O'Shea,” she said with a smile. “Are you suggesting that I pay for my own history? I will not. And neither will Cecily.”

“No, no, that's not what I meant,” I said. Man, this woman was tough. “What I meant was…if there is something in particular that you want. Maybe something of your father's. I can, well…I can either ask my stepfather if you can have it or I can just give it to you before I catalog it.”

She looked a little surprised. “That's dishonest, Mrs. O'Shea.”

“I would tell him later that a few items had been given to family. I just think that…I don't know what I think, Mrs. Guelders. It all seems terribly sad, such a waste. I mean, there is an entire house out there full of your family heirlooms and your history. It doesn't seem right that all of it is to be sold in an antique shop to tourists from other states and countries. You and your sister should have something, photographs, maybe.”

The whole time I spoke, her expression never changed. She looked at me with the intensity of a bobcat. Yup. She was a bobcat, and I was going to be lunch if I didn't get out of there quickly.

I stood up. “I guess I'll be going. I've taken enough of your time.”

I reached into my purse and set my card on the butcher block. “I still have to write her biography. If there is anything at all that you would like to add, please call me.” Then I added lamely. “Or if there is anything else I can do for you.”

She picked up my card with a well-manicured hand and smiled at me. She walked back through the hallway, leading me out, and then finally to the living room. “Have a nice day, Mrs. O'Shea.”

“Oh, one more thing,” I said.

“What's that?” she asked.

“When was the last time you saw your cousin, Patrick?”

“Patrick Ward?” Her eyes narrowed and her lips grew taut. It was clear she was irritated with me and probably wondering how I knew they were cousins.

“Yes, Patrick Ward.”

“It's been years. Why do you ask?”

“He was found dead, Friday morning. In the old Yates house.”

She blanched, but said nothing. Instead, she turned the door knob and ushered me out in pensive silence.

The door shutting behind me sounded deafening, but it wasn't really. She'd shut it normally. She wouldn't have breached any sort of etiquette in showing me out. It was my imagination. I imagined what she really wanted to do was slam the door after me.

I had never felt so thoroughly rejected. I had made no impact on her whatsoever. How could that be?