Lethal Lineage (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

I walked into my office at the historical society glad for mundane chores and grateful that Keith had settled down into his thinking mode. Today, he would simply handle calls at the sheriff’s office and take notes.

However, it’s difficult to deal with crimes committed by someone in another county if the “someone” was a sheriff. There were approximately forty-five Deals, counting little children. The destruction of the oats field would have involved exclusively male adults. Then I amended that to include teenagers. Farm kids started driving at a ridiculously early age.

And realistically, there were more Deals than that. There were married daughters with their husbands’ surnames and their teenage sons. Also a lot of women worked in the fields like men.

About nine, a woman arrived carrying a clip board and a back pack purse. She wore skinny jeans with a pressed-in front crease and a snowy white blouse. Her etched leather belt matched the pattern on her silver-tipped western boots. Her shiny black hair was cut in a fashionable wedge. She ushered in an aroma of starch and sunshine.

I rose and introduced myself.

“I’m Zola Hodson,” she replied with a soft faintly British accent. “I’m come in response to your advertisement for a housekeeper.”

“It’s a big place,” I stammered. “Two women come once a month to do heavy work.”

“That’s always appreciated.” She checked a square on her clip board.

“I’ll need references, and I’m also a law enforcement officer, so there will be a background check because I have to be sure of your immigration status.”

“Of course.” She smiled.

“We’re just starting to screen applicants.” A little white one, but surely there someone else would show up. Someone with a little more heft and a strong back. Then I was deeply embarrassed that I had prejudged on the basis of her appearance. “And employment forms. I’ll pay social security taxes, of course.”

She frowned. “Perhaps you don’t understand, Miss Albright. I need to see your place before I decide to accept you as a client. I’m an independent contractor. I will bring all my own cleaning supplies and equipment. After I evaluate your situation and
if
I decide to accept you, we will agree on a rate.”

Too dumbfounded to speak, I nodded.

“You also must understand that I take pride in my work, and will insist on implementing a few changes that may involve extra personnel. At my discretion.”

“For instance?”

“If I see a wasp nest on your porch, I’ll call an exterminator. If a faucet drips, I’ll call a plumber.”

Heaven. A glimpse of heaven. Uneasily, I eyed her checklist. I gave her directions to Fiene’s Folly.

“My sister is there. She can show you around.”

She punched my number into her cell phone. “I’ll get back to you,” she said pleasantly as she breezed out the door.

Frantic, I called Josie. “Make the beds and do something to my bathroom. Now.”

“Shall I make tea, too?”

***

Determined to concentrate on the job at hand, I donned my earphones and inserted one of Edna’s tapes in the player. She had been so proud of her son and daughter. I listened to accounts of music lessons and sports events and making costumes for school plays. She skipped around and backtracked through the years and there was no mention whatsoever of her feelings toward her husband. It was as though he didn’t exist. She spent her entire marriage working around him. Putting things over on him, for the sake of the children. Actually, she managed to do that very well.

I couldn’t shut Talesbury totally out of mind. I got up and located the photo of the nineteenth century Catholic Bishop, Salesburg, whose fearsome name often came up in Kansas priests’ memoirs.

His beard was much longer than Talesbury’s, and his eyes were deep set, but the resemblance was uncanny. I’d known that from the moment I saw him, and now I knew to trace Talesbury’s mother’s lineage. Not his father’s. Talesbury’s great uncle or great-great or some weird kin connection.

Chip Ferguson came through the door at about eleven o’clock, bearing a load of family photos. He had selected the one he wanted in the history books for his own entry and asked if I wanted to copy the others which were behind convex glass.

“Do I ever!” We collected as many photos as we could for our files and a quick glance told me these were a real treasure. There were pictures of Gateway City from the early 1900s, including ones of a rare flood when water had poured into businesses.

I went to our Beseler Digital Photo-Video Copy Stand and attached my Nikon D700. By now, I’d invested a fortune in equipment for my underpaid job.

“Would you mind if I took them out of their frames?” This part was always tricky. Persons imagined that I would somehow trash their precious photos. But it was difficult to do a good job through some types of glass.

“Be careful,” he said.

With jewelers’ tools, I carefully wobbled the tiny pins from the back of the frame and removed the protecting layer of fiberboard on the back. I centered the photo and took a series of pictures. When I’d finished duplicating everything, I placed the photos back in their frames and gave the collection back to Chip.

Then I uploaded the images to my computer, printed out every one of them on good photo paper. We had a comb binder. I put the pages into an album, printed a cover entitled “My Album,” with “Chip Ferguson” in script at the bottom and handed it to him.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, staring at the book. “God’s sake. Thanks. Wasn’t expecting this.” He fumbled for an old handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.

“You are very welcome,” I said. This was excellent PR and once we had the equipment we could make these books in about fifteen minutes. It had led to some unexpected and generous monetary contributions to the historical society, and through word of mouth, a cascade of fantastic photos came in that ordinarily would never be shared.

“I’ll remember this,” And I hoped he would. He had no heirs and this stingy, miserly man had to give his money to someone or something. He vigorously shook my hand again and left.

I wanted this man to talk about his parents. How they happened to come to Carlton County, how they made a living. He would soon. I’d learned to take one step at a time.

I listened to Edna’s tapes until noon, and then called Keith to see if he could join me for lunch. He agreed and as I hung up, I was struck with a pleasant realization. For a full hour, I had not thought about Mary Farnsworth.

That changed a minute later.

***

Bishop Rice called my cell phone. “I’m on my way to Western Kansas,” he said. “On business related to issues other than St. Helena. But there has been a very strange development. I would like to discuss this with you personally. Will you be home this evening?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I understand that your husband is now a deputy?”

“Yes, he is.” The news must have traveled with the speed of light.

“Would it be possible to have him there also?”

“Yes. That’s not a problem.”

“Fine. And your sister? She’s still a KBI consultant?”

“Yes.” I wondered how he had put all this together and if he knew the dog’s name also.

“Fine. I’d like to include her in the conversation. And my wife, Sara, will be with me, helping me drive.”

“Please plan on having dinner with us. We would love to have you both.”

We agreed on a time. I hung up, and called Josie. I told her the Rices would be there for dinner.

“Is Zola there yet?”

“Yes, she’s right here in the kitchen. She says the floorboards on your east porch need replaced. And she says no.”

“Put her on the phone.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “So very sorry, but I will not be able to accommodate you.”

“If it’s a matter of money.”

“No, Miss Albright, it’s a matter of integrity. The answer is no. I require a certain level of cooperation.”

Anything
, I thought.
We’ll cooperate like crazy.
I could imagine the amused expression on Josie’s face. Envision her elaborate smoke rings formed to keep from laughing out loud.

“Frankly, this place requires a great deal of work and I could only give you one day a week. A Tuesday. It’s a quite undesirable day. Most persons prefer to prepare for weekends or recover from them.”

“Once a week would be wonderful.” Tuesday was wonderful. Today was Tuesday.

“One day a week is not enough time to set Fiene’s Folly to rights. My great-great grandfather managed an estate in England and my grand-father Tompkins…”

“Tompkins? Tompkins? You’re one of the Studley Tompkins?”

“Why yes, I am. Did you know them?”

“I know
about
them. I wrote an article about the English in Kansas.” A foot in the door. Finally. I shamelessly exalted her illustrious ancestors, and praised their noble accomplishments. I omitted references to any drunken reprobates. By the end of my self-serving manipulative recitation I had myself a housekeeper. When I mentioned a visiting bishop, she agreed to start at once.

Then I spoke to Josie again and begged her to dig out a recipe book and come up with something elegant and manageable. Especially manageable. No gourmet concoctions because our little grocery store would not have the ingredients.

***

Their little Honda Prius pulled up our lane early evening. The bishop and Keith hit it off immediately. His wife was a pleasant brown-haired woman with a trace of a New York accent. Sara Rice wore a cream cotton pullover over khaki cropped pants. She was a very gracious lady and I suspected she had a keen intuitive feel for setting people at ease anywhere in the world.

Josie had decided that grilled kabobs and a fruit bowl made more sense than a formal meal on short notice. It was just the right touch. The Rices were skilled conversationalists, and Keith and I enjoy entertaining. The evening should have been absolutely perfect, but curiosity was about to do us all in. There was a lull, then Bishop Rice sighed, stopped smiling, and looked at the three of us.

“It’s time to get down to the reason for my visit,” he said. “There’s been an unexpected complication regarding Bishop Talesbury. And the reason I’ve asked the three of you to hear this together is because of the time and energy you’ve all spent trying to make a go of St. Helena.”

I didn’t groan out load, but inside my stomach little dwarfs started beating kettle drums. How could there possibly be another complication?

“Have any of you ever heard of a glebe?”

Keith knew. I was the historian but I didn’t have a clue. Clearly Josie didn’t either.

“In England, a Bishop was given a parcel of land for his own purposes,” Keith said. “It was called a glebe. It supplemented his living and could be passed down to his heirs. It was his.”

“Exactly,” said Rice. “And the Episcopal Church in America carried on this custom here for a number of years. There’s only one glebe west of the Mississippi and it’s in Clay County, Kansas.”

I sat bolt upright. I sensed where this was heading. “Please do not tell me that Talesbury is asking for a glebe. Let me guess,” I said. “The parcel of land on which we built St. Helena’s. The land that had such sloppy documentation.”

“Right. That’s the land.” He looked at us all frankly, like a man used to dealing with strange situations. “It’s worse than that, Miss Albright. He claims he already owns it.”

“And he claims it’s his why?” Josie asked.

“He’s the sole heir of his great-great-great uncle, The Right Reverend Josef T. Salesburg, who allegedly owned it to begin with.”

“That’s why the abstract work was off. Nothing made sense. The land would have been given before Kansas was a state. Territorial times.” Alarmed by the excitement in my voice, Tosca ran to Josie. “Paperwork from that era rarely survived. That also explains why an African Bishop showed up in Western Kansas.”

“Yes, it certainly does,” Rice said. “Forty acres means nothing out here, but they would seem like a patch of heaven on earth to a man who survived the horrible Hutu/Tutsi wars.”

I smiled. Land ownership again. It came up over and over in Western Kansas. Forty acres. The number of acres many ex-slaves believed they would own if they could make it to Kansas.

Kansas. The Promised Land. To the formerly enslaved, and now to an African bishop.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I expected Josie to start packing the next morning. If she couldn’t participate in the recall election, there was no reason for her to stay. Instead, I found her at the kitchen table, gazing out the window, drinking coffee and scribbling on a legal pad.

I poured myself a cup and carried it out to the patio. She joined me about fifteen minutes later.

“I’m not going in today,” I waved my cup. “Not to either job. Right now I’m worn down by both of them.”

“Zola will be great. Sorely needed, I might add.”

“Hate to admit it, but I’m exhausted.”

“And you’re over Keith’s stepping in?”

“Mostly. In fact, I’m beginning to see the advantages. I don’t have to worry about saying too much or too little. And you? Have you come to love this part of the state?”

“No. And believe me, I want to get out of here, but Harold says we can’t back down on the charges we filed against Deal. He’s still an arrogant bastard and he still has to go. Spring Break isn’t over for another week, and I’ll tack on another week if I must. Harold can find substitutes for my classes.”

“Maybe so, but you can’t hang around here until the next election.”

“I know that, but Harold and I have talked. The petitions may be invalid and it was stupid to show our hands before we knew what we were doing, but the sentiments of persons in Copeland County are genuine. He wants me to talk to each person, explain how we screwed up, and find three voters brave enough to start the process again.”

“Deal’s sly, Josie. Wicked mean. You’ll have a hard time convincing people to speak up after they hear about Keith’s oats field. Keith has quite a bit of clout, and if that clan crossed him, they’ll target anyone.”

“I know that. You think I don’t know how to cope with mean people?”

“Maybe, but as a psychologist, you’re used to being in charge.”

“That’s true, but my reputation is at stake. Harold says I’ve got to see this through.”

“We’ve got a lot on our plates,” I said. “Keith is trying to find out who plowed up his oats field, and I’m just sick about the church. All the people who thought they owned these little parcels of land. I still can’t believe I was this stupid.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Lottie.”

“In a way it was. I know better than to ignore serious snags in documentation. That land was a nightmare from the very beginning.”

“We don’t know for sure yet that Talesbury’s claim is valid. It sounds fishy to me that this hasn’t come up before.”

“Me too. I don’t buy Bishop Rice’s argument that forty acres would seem like a sanctuary to Talesbury after those wars. I can’t imagine why he would want them. It’s just forty acres in the middle of nowhere. He can’t make a living off it. It’s not good for anything.”

“Are you sure? Is there any oil potential?”

“I didn’t think of that. Keith knows some geologists who might be able to make a decent guess.”

“Archeology material?”

“Kansas has had great finds all right. The Penokee Man is just a couple of counties away. It’s an outline of a human figure about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide. A paleontologist from Harvard thinks it was made by Plains Indians. But archeology is worth checking. I’ll call the Kansas Archeology Association and see if they have ideas.”

***

Harold called mid-morning on the house phone. I was in the laundry room sorting clothes. Enjoying the scent of Febreze, whittling down piles of sheets and towels. Chores that went like they were supposed to. After Josie hung up she hollered from the kitchen. “There’s been a new development.”

“That figures.” I added a capful of Tide to the washer, and walked over to the table. “Do I need something stronger than coffee?”

“No. And I don’t know why you insist on calling it coffee. It’s a really strange development.” She continued after I sat down. “Harold says there is no record of a woman like Mary in the witness protection program. But an American woman resembling her was
supposed
to go in and never did about twenty years ago.”

“Folks can’t just leave the program, can they?”

“Sure, if you’re never in it. Mary might have been this woman, but he says it’s doubtful.”

“She just disappeared?”

“This woman did. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. He says it’s not likely anyone in danger would choose such a conspicuous occupation. He doubts it’s the same person.”

“Why was the government considering putting her in this program to begin with?”

“Harold is trying to find out. He would especially like to know why everything regarding this woman is such a secret.”

“I know where I would start looking first. Bishop Talesbury. I bet he knows plenty.”

“I’ll call Harold right back.”

***

When Keith got home that evening, he said he’d gotten four calls that day with complaints about Deal. We were helpless, of course, because we were trying to thwart the sheriff of Copeland County. The top law enforcement officer.

“The hell of it is,” he said, “a lot of this is propaganda. But when a business is hanging on by a thread, that’s all it takes.” He reached for a bottle of home brew and joined Josie and me at the table.

“Mrs. Winthrop called me and said there was a rumor going around that a bunch of people got food poisoning at her café. It was a damn lie, but she couldn’t call her own sheriff and we can’t do anything about it. She lives in Deal’s county and even if I was the sheriff there, there’s not a damn thing I can do about a rumor.”

“What are you going to do about your oats field?” Josie asked.

“What do you mean do? Not going to do anything.” He rose abruptly and walked over to the window and stared outside. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. The setting sun accentuated the lines in his face. He looked weary. Older. Beaten down.

“It’s too late to replant oats. I’m going to re-till that field and get it ready for corn. It’s the only thing I can do. It will be a pain in the ass because a lot of oats will come up volunteer, but I have no choice.”

“No, I meant legally. How are you going to find the person?” Josie wouldn’t give up.

He turned and looked embarrassed. “I’m discovering that as a law enforcement officer, my hands are tied in a lot of ways.”

“Not easy, is it?” I said.

“No. In fact, this whole thing is the pits.” He looked at Josie. “Here’s the deal. As a deputy sheriff investigating a crime, I need to have probable cause to inspect a man’s tractor and equipment and match the tracks in my field. I can’t just walk into a man’s barn.”

“There’s got to be some way to do things in counties like this,” Josie said, “or police would be victimized all of the time.”

“I’m not worried about myself or even you two women right now. I’m worried about all the people who signed that petition. Can’t believe I was that dumb. Can’t imagine I didn’t read all the fine print. Can’t believe I’ve caused that much trouble for people who finally got up their nerve to fight back.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Josie said. “We were all in on this. And I’m still more upset over the oats field than about the petition signers.”

Keith smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. “Before I took this job, I could have just found the bastard and knocked the hell out of him, then dared him to file charges. I can’t do that now.”

Josie flinched, her eyes widened. “You can’t just go around beating people up.”

“Keith, that’s ridiculous. It’s vigilante justice,” I said. But he knew that. It wouldn’t bring back the oats field.

“No? What else would you suggest? I spent the afternoon reading up on my new occupation. The trouble I could get into as an ordinary citizen, and the trouble I would have doing exactly the same thing as a police officer are different situations altogether.”

I pushed back from the table, and walked over to my colorful array of bibbed aprons hanging on pegs. I put one on, picked up a spatula, and waved it at them. “I’m the queen here and this is my kitchen. As my subjects, you are both forbidden to say one more word about crime this whole evening.”

Josie rolled her eyes and Keith grinned.

“I’ve got a roast in the oven. Josie made a pie. Get out of here. Shoo. Go check on the cattle, and by the time you’re done we’ll have supper on the table. Then let’s do something normal. Like play music. For the dog’s sake. Tosca needs a soothing evening.”

Good food helped. But our conversations faltered.

Later we alternated playing bluegrass, country western, and classical.

I hadn’t thought it possible for the three of us to miss so many notes.